I don't remember the Adriatic Sea being that beautiful and blue. I don't remember feeling anything at all when you took the picture of me sitting on the windowsill with the sea behind me. I remember sleeping in separate beds, but that was nothing new. You later told me how much you had wished I would just hold your hand -- after a decade together, there you were hoping I'd hold your hand, like some junior-high kid with a crush. "I really wanted us to hold hands in Croatia," you said shyly, after the fact.
But there was of course someone else, and I had promised him that the trip would not be romantic. That you and I would not get caught up in the adventure of being expatriate twins in a foreign country and come back together. I was planning to end it, after we came home. We'd been planning the trip for months, and it was going to be one last gift to you.
A gift of walking along gleaming limestone streets in the Old City of Dubrovnik, beneath a velvet sky I can't recall, eating gelato across the table at an outdoor cafe and not touching, a gift of my body far from yours, dreaming separate things.