We’ve all met them. Women, men, it doesn’t matter: the “it’s practically over” type knows no gender, age, or geography. For convenience, I’ll use the feminine, but the phenomenon is democratic.
The scene is always the same: any evening, any social media, an innocent photo of yours—maybe a cute dress—and bam, the tiny thumbnail of their face appears. A circle less than a centimeter wide carrying a fate: the next few hours glued to the chat.
The first message is disarmingly simple: “How are you?” You reply. He responds: “Tough time.”
And from there, inevitably, you start stumbling into a black hole of probabilities: what’s happening? Why me? And above all… what does he want?
He wants to see you, of course. And you go—because there’s something to understand, something to decipher.
You arrive elegant but not too much, with that air of spontaneity that has never truly existed.
And when you see him, you immediately realize that the “it’s practically over” type doesn’t just tell a story: he performs it.
How he dresses:
White shirt, slightly too ironed, dark blue sweater, serious watch, clean but not new shoes.
Discreet yet lingering cologne, hair tousled with that precise art that pretends carelessness.
He looks like a man cast for “marital crisis, lead role.”
He sits in front of you, his sadness draped over him like a fine sweater.
And you?
You do everything a woman does when something doesn’t add up but she wants to believe anyway.
What she does while he talks:
Crosses her legs, maybe one time too many.
Rests her heel—calibrated between day and evening—as if stability passes through the ankles.
Tilts her head a few degrees, a gesture that signals listening.
Traces imperceptible circles on the edge of the glass with her finger, as if holding together present and possibility.
Occasionally smiles, but the smile never truly reaches the eyes.
And while he talks—eyelids slightly lowered, knees turned inward, voice thinning—you lean slightly forward, instinctively, as if the truth is about to emerge at any moment.
It doesn’t, of course: it slips away, as it always does.
You extend your hand and tactfully ask if he’s sad because of his girlfriend or wife.
He nods.
(You’re already the second. You’ll find out later.)
The “it’s practically over” continues his monologue with the confidence of someone who’s felt misunderstood for centuries. He tells you about the long, burnt-out, exhausting relationship.
And then, with the breath of a seasoned actor, comes the key phrase:
“It’s practically over.”
They sleep on the couch.
They live like siblings.
Each lives their own life.
The script is perfect, the performance flawless.
And it’s right there—while the trees of your imagination begin to bend in the wind, while lightning tears through the metaphorical sky—that you discover a new kind of love: theoretical love.
A love that belongs neither in Dante nor Boccaccio, but in the great contemporary manual of feelings.
In theory, they have Sunday lunch together.
In theory, they plan vacations.
In theory, they watch Sanremo.
In practice… it’s not over at all.
Thus begins the modern classic: you in pajamas on Saturday night in front of the TV; he—always in theory—out with her.
And you understand. You justify. You adapt.
Because he offers you so much, he says. Opens new perspectives for you, he always says.
Until that freezing evening, when it’s cold outside and you are completely alone (let’s say it quietly: alone), while he—in theory—is across town. Not alone.
So, you turn on the kettle.
Grab a cup.
Take out a chamomile tea bag. Yes, chamomile…
And you understand everything. At least in theory.