“I’m in love,” the text message read, “with Mina. I’m sorry, Claudi.” I read Thor’s words over several times. Had I missed something? Had I misunderstood him during one of our many English-German gibberish conversations? And who was Mina? The only Mina we both knew was the girl we had once met at a graduation party. 

Another message appeared, lighting up my trembling hand. “You know… Mina from the party.” I stared blankly at the screen. “It’s so important that I be with her. She is special to me in a way that no one has ever been.”

Tears began to well up in my eyes and, before I knew it, the last slice of lasagna had slipped out of my non-offending hand, and I had crumpled onto the floor. 

What had happened to exploring the Italy of our childhood? Or to moving into a closet-sized apartment in New York City and recreating a better version of our beloved sitcom F.R.I.E.N.D.S? Or continuing the nights spent making pasta and having a two-person dance party? And all for a girl he had met once? I lay frozen next to the disassembled lasagna for the next hour. 

Thor had been one of my closest friends during my year abroad. He had been the comical relief during long, stressful hours of incomprehensible homework, the entertainer during boring lectures, and the best date on days when I needed more than just the company of an ice cream cone and the ocean. He had also been my first serious boyfriend. And to the reader that perhaps knows me on a more personal level: yes, this took place despite the expected warnings and passive-aggressive comments from my very protective, very traditional Puerto Rican mom. She was not happy, to say the least.

But I was. I was in a relationship better than I could have ever imagined. Everything was wonderful. Even my last day abroad—which was spent on the beach, eating pizza, and watching the sunset at the surprise farewell party he had organized— had been great. I was convinced that a better boyfriend simply did not and would never ever exist. 

The tomato sauce, cheese, and pasta layers now decorating the floor reminded me of the reality at hand, however. 

I finally decided that there would be no salvaging of the lasagna floor art. It was a somewhat difficult decision for me to make, as both hunger and impatience began to overwhelm me, but I stuck to my decision. I left the phone on the floor—where it continued to light up and buzz—cleaned up, and slowly made my way over to the kitchen. If eating lasagna was even what I still wanted at this point, I at least owed it to myself to make a new one. It wouldn’t be an impossible task, as I already had all the ingredients on hand. It might just require a little patience. Who knows, I thought to myself as I opened the package of cheese, maybe this lasagna will come out even better than the first.