The apartment smelled like garlic and butter—a simple pasta aglio e olio that Donovan had learned to make during his time in Barcelona. It wasn't an elaborate meal, just spaghetti tossed with olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes, and a handful of parsley from the struggling herb plant on their windowsill. But it was one of those dishes that felt more substantial than its ingredients suggested, the kind of comfort food that made their small apartment feel like home.

  Tyler sat at their tiny kitchen table, scrolling through something on his laptop while Donovan stirred the pasta water. The steady click of Tyler's keyboard provided a comfortable rhythm to the evening, punctuated by the occasional frustrated sigh when something on his screen didn't cooperate.

  "How's the capstone coming?" Donovan asked, draining the pasta and reserving a cup of the starchy water.

  "Slowly," Tyler replied without looking up. "We're trying to model different market scenarios, but the data keeps giving us weird outliers. Brad thinks there's an error in our formulas, but I'm pretty sure it's just that the market did something unpredictable in Q3."

  Donovan smiled to himself as he tossed the pasta with the garlic-infused oil. This was peak Tyler—absorbed in spreadsheets and projections, finding puzzles where other people saw numbers. It was one of the things Donovan had always appreciated about him, this methodical approach to problems, the way he could lose himself in data analysis for hours.

  "You'll figure it out," Donovan said, dividing the pasta between two mismatched bowls they'd accumulated over their years together. "You always do."

  Tyler finally looked up, closing his laptop as Donovan brought the bowls to the table. "Is this that Barcelona pasta thing you made last month?"

  "Yeah. The simple Italian dish I learned to make while there, but good." Donovan settled into his chair, the wooden seat creaking familiarly beneath him.

  "It's really good," Tyler said after his first bite, and Donovan felt a small flush of pride. Cooking had never been his strong suit before Barcelona, but something about those summer months had sparked an interest he hadn't known he possessed. "You've gotten so much better at this. Maybe you missed your calling as a chef."

  Donovan laughed. "I don't think three pasta recipes qualify me for culinary school."

  They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that came from years of shared meals, shared spaces. The autumn darkness had settled outside their windows, and the warm light from their cheap IKEA lamp created a small pool of coziness against the cold November evening.

  "So," Tyler said, twirling pasta around his fork, "I was talking to that recruiter from Amazon today at the career fair. The one I mentioned last week?"

  "The one with the Seattle office?"

  "Yeah. She seemed really interested in my experience with the business analytics club. Said they're always looking for people who can bridge the gap between data and strategy." Tyler's eyes lit up in the way they always did when he talked about future career possibilities. "She basically implied that if I apply in the spring, I'd have a strong shot at their associate program."

  "That's amazing," Donovan said, and he meant it. He could hear the excitement in Tyler's voice, see the way this potential opportunity energized him.

  "It would be perfect, you know? We've always talked about Seattle. This could actually make it happen." Tyler took a sip of water, then looked at Donovan with an expression that was both hopeful and slightly anxious. "You're still thinking about PR firms there, right? Or maybe agencies that work with tech companies?"

  Donovan felt something tighten in his chest. This was the opening he'd been both wanting and dreading. "Actually, I've been thinking..."

  He paused, trying to find the right words. In his head, during the past few days since his call with Alejandro, he'd rehearsed this conversation a dozen times. But now, faced with Tyler's expectant expression, the carefully planned phrasing evaporated.

  "What if we considered other options?" Donovan said finally. "Besides Seattle, I mean."

  Tyler's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Other options? Like what? Portland? San Francisco?"

  "I was thinking... maybe Barcelona?"

  The words hung in the air between them. Tyler set down his fork slowly, his expression shifting from confusion to something Donovan couldn't quite read.

  "Barcelona," Tyler repeated, as if testing the word. "Like, Barcelona, Spain?"

  "Yeah. I mean, my Spanish is really good now. There are international companies there, PR agencies that work with English-speaking clients. I could—"

  "Wait." Tyler held up a hand, his brow furrowing. "Are you serious right now?"

  Donovan felt his momentum faltering but pressed on. "I've been looking into it, and there are actually opportunities there. The city has this whole startup scene, tech companies expanding—"

  "Donovan." Tyler's voice was gentle but firm, the tone he used when he was trying to be patient with something he didn't understand. "Barcelona was a summer program. It was amazing, and I'm glad you had that experience, but we've been planning Seattle for two years. That's where the real opportunities are. That's where we talked about building our life together."

  "I know, but—"

  "We've researched neighborhoods," Tyler continued, his voice taking on a note of something that sounded almost hurt. "We have that whole spreadsheet comparing apartments. You helped me map out the commute times from different areas. We've talked about which coffee shops we'd go to, which parks, where we'd want to live in five years when we could afford a place with a view."

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  Donovan looked down at his pasta, the garlic and oil suddenly seeming too heavy. "I remember all that."

  "Then where is this coming from?" Tyler asked. There was no anger in his voice, just genuine confusion. "Did something happen? Did someone offer you a job there or something?"

  "No, nothing like that." Donovan struggled to articulate what he was feeling without revealing too much. "It's just... being there had this big impact on me. The city, the culture, the whole experience. I felt different there. And I keep thinking about what it would be like to go back, maybe even to live there."

  Tyler was quiet for a moment, studying Donovan's face with an expression that combined concern and incomprehension. "Babe, of course you felt different there. You were on a study abroad program. Everything was new and exciting. That's what summer programs are designed to do—give you this intense, immersive experience. But that's not real life. Real life is jobs and careers and building something sustainable."

  "Barcelona could be sustainable," Donovan said, hearing the defensiveness in his own voice.

  "Could it?" Tyler asked, and there was still no cruelty in the question, just practical skepticism. "You'd need a work visa. You'd need to find a company willing to sponsor you. You'd be starting from scratch in a city where you don't have connections, in a job market you don't understand. Meanwhile, I've got recruiters from major companies literally telling me they want to hire me in Seattle."

  Donovan didn't have a response to that. The practical obstacles Tyler was laying out were real, undeniable. He hadn't actually researched visa requirements or job markets. He'd just been caught up in the fantasy of it, the dream Alejandro had planted during their last call.

  "I just thought maybe we could consider it," Donovan said quietly. "Explore the possibility."

  Tyler reached across the table, taking Donovan's hand in his. His grip was warm, familiar, reassuring. "I love that you had this amazing experience in Barcelona. I love that you learned Spanish. But I thought our plans were pretty solid, Donovan. Seattle makes sense for both of us. It's where we've been heading for years."

  "Seattle feels like your plan," Donovan said before he could stop himself. "Like something you decided and I just... went along with."

  Tyler's expression flickered—hurt, confusion, maybe a touch of frustration. "We decided together. You were the one who found that apartment spreadsheet template. You were excited about the Capitol Hill neighborhood. You said you wanted to be somewhere with good coffee and the gay scene."

  He was right. Donovan had said all those things, had participated in all that planning. But had he really wanted it, or had he just been following Tyer's lead, assuming that what made sense for Tyler would make sense for him too?

  "You're right," Donovan said, because it was easier than trying to explain the complicated tangle of feelings he couldn't fully articulate even to himself. "I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from."

  "Are you unhappy?" Tyler asked, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on Donovan's hand. "With us, I mean? With our plans?"

  "No," Donovan said quickly. Too quickly. "No, I'm not unhappy. I just... I guess I'm still processing things from the summer. It was such a big experience, you know?"

  Tyler nodded slowly, seeming to accept this explanation. "That makes sense. Study abroad can be intense. Maybe you just need more time to process it all. But, Donovan—" he squeezed his hand, "—we can't throw away two years of planning because you're still homesick for Barcelona. That's not how you build a future."

  "Barcelona was just a summer thing, babe," Tyler continued, his voice kind but firm. "A really important summer thing that taught you a lot. But we have real plans. Plans that make sense for our careers and our future together."

  Donovan nodded, feeling the conversation closing, the window of possibility shutting before it had really opened. Tyler wasn't being unreasonable. His points were valid, his logic sound. Barcelona had been a summer program. They did have established plans. Throwing everything away on a whim would be irresponsible.

  And yet, as Tyer released his hand and returned to his pasta, chatting now about the Seattle housing market and what areas were still affordable for young professionals, Donovan felt something settling in his chest. Not quite resignation, not quite disappointment, but something in between—a recognition that he and Tyler were looking at the same future and seeing completely different things.

  Tyler saw spreadsheets and career trajectories and carefully planned neighborhoods. Donovan saw... what, exactly? A romantic fantasy? An escape? Or something more fundamental—a different way of living, a different version of himself that he'd discovered in Barcelona's winding streets and couldn't quite let go of?

  "You okay?" Tyler asked, noticing Donovan's silence. "You've barely touched your food."

  "Yeah, I'm fine." Donovan forced himself to take another bite. "Just thinking."

  "About Seattle?"

  "About everything."

  Tyler smiled, apparently taking this as enthusiasm. "It's going to be great. I can feel it. Both of us starting our careers in an amazing city. This is what we've been working toward."

  Donovan smiled back, because it was expected, because Tyler's optimism deserved encouragement, because it was easier than explaining the hollow feeling that had opened up inside him during this conversation.

  They finished dinner talking about safer topics—Tyler's capstone, Donovan's PR campaign for the farmers market, whether they should finally replace their dying couch before graduation or just deal with it for another semester. Normal, comfortable, couple conversation. The kind of discussion they'd had hundreds of times before.

  But as Donovan cleared the dishes and Tyler returned to his laptop, something had shifted. The apartment felt smaller somehow, the future more constrained. Tyler's vision was clear, logical, well-planned. And Donovan had no competing vision to offer—just a vague longing for something different, something he couldn't name or justify.

  He thought about Alejandro's words from their last call: "Barcelona could be more than just a summer memory." But how could it be, when Tyler was right here, solid and present and planning a real future? When Barcelona was just a dream, a fantasy, a summer that was already fading into the past?

  Donovan washed the dishes in silence, the warm water and lemon soap mechanical and familiar. Through the doorway, he could see Tyler at the table, absorbed in his spreadsheet, occasionally muttering calculations to himself. This was his life—this apartment, this relationship, these plans. It was good. It was stable. It made sense.

  So why did it suddenly feel like he was standing at a crossroads, looking at two paths diverging, knowing he was supposed to take the well-lit, clearly marked route but unable to stop glancing at the other path, the one that led into uncertain territory, toward a city bathed in Mediterranean light, toward possibilities he couldn't quite define?

  "Hey," Tyler called from the other room, "do you want to watch something after I finish this section? There's that new show everyone's talking about."

  "Sure," Donovan called back, drying the last plate. "Sounds good."

  And it did sound good—normal, comfortable, exactly what couples did on a Tuesday evening. But as Donovan hung up the dish towel and prepared to join Tyeler on the couch, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just closed a door he might have wanted to walk through. And Tyler, kind and logical and completely reasonable Tyler, hadn't even realized there had been a door to close.