We\u2019ve all met them. Women, men, it doesn\u2019t matter: the \u201cit\u2019s practically over\u201d type knows no gender, age, or geography. For convenience, I\u2019ll use the feminine, but the phenomenon is democratic. <\/p>\n
The scene is always the same: any evening, any social media, an innocent photo of yours\u2014maybe a cute dress\u2014and 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. <\/p>\n
The first message is disarmingly simple: \u201cHow are you?\u201d You reply. He responds: \u201cTough time.\u201d <\/p>\n
And from there, inevitably, you start stumbling into a black hole of probabilities: what\u2019s happening? Why me? And above all\u2026 what does he want? <\/p>\n
He wants to see you, of course. And you go\u2014because there\u2019s something to understand, something to decipher. <\/p>\n
You arrive elegant but not too much, with that air of spontaneity that has never truly existed.<\/p>\n
And when you see him, you immediately realize that the \u201cit\u2019s practically over\u201d type doesn\u2019t just tell a story: he performs it.<\/p>\n
How he dresses:<\/p>\n
White shirt, slightly too ironed, dark blue sweater, serious watch, clean but not new shoes.<\/p>\n
Discreet yet lingering cologne, hair tousled with that precise art that pretends carelessness.<\/p>\n
He looks like a man cast for \u201cmarital crisis, lead role.\u201d<\/p>\n
He sits in front of you, his sadness draped over him like a fine sweater.<\/p>\n
And you?<\/p>\n
You do everything a woman does when something doesn\u2019t add up but she wants to believe anyway.<\/p>\n
What she does while he talks:<\/p>\n
Crosses her legs, maybe one time too many.<\/p>\n
Rests her heel\u2014calibrated between day and evening\u2014as if stability passes through the ankles.<\/p>\n
Tilts her head a few degrees, a gesture that signals listening.<\/p>\n
Traces imperceptible circles on the edge of the glass with her finger, as if holding together present and possibility.<\/p>\n
Occasionally smiles, but the smile never truly reaches the eyes.<\/p>\n
And while he talks\u2014eyelids slightly lowered, knees turned inward, voice thinning\u2014you lean slightly forward, instinctively, as if the truth is about to emerge at any moment.<\/p>\n
It doesn\u2019t, of course: it slips away, as it always does.<\/p>\n
You extend your hand and tactfully ask if he\u2019s sad because of his girlfriend or wife.<\/p>\n
He nods.<\/p>\n
(You\u2019re already the second. You\u2019ll find out later.)<\/p>\n
The \u201cit\u2019s practically over\u201d continues his monologue with the confidence of someone who\u2019s felt misunderstood for centuries. He tells you about the long, burnt-out, exhausting relationship. <\/p>\n
And then, with the breath of a seasoned actor, comes the key phrase:<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s practically over.\u201d<\/p>\n
They sleep on the couch.<\/p>\n
They live like siblings.<\/p>\n
Each lives their own life.<\/p>\n
The script is perfect, the performance flawless.<\/p>\n
And it\u2019s right there\u2014while the trees of your imagination begin to bend in the wind, while lightning tears through the metaphorical sky\u2014that you discover a new kind of love: theoretical love.<\/p>\n
A love that belongs neither in Dante nor Boccaccio, but in the great contemporary manual of feelings.<\/p>\n
In theory, they have Sunday lunch together.<\/p>\n
In theory, they plan vacations.<\/p>\n
In theory, they watch Sanremo.<\/p>\n
In practice\u2026 it\u2019s not over at all.<\/p>\n
Thus begins the modern classic: you in pajamas on Saturday night in front of the TV; he\u2014always in theory\u2014out with her.<\/p>\n
And you understand. You justify. You adapt. <\/p>\n
Because he offers you so much, he says. Opens new perspectives for you, he always says. <\/p>\n
Until that freezing evening, when it\u2019s cold outside and you are completely alone (let\u2019s say it quietly: alone), while he\u2014in theory\u2014is across town. Not alone. <\/p>\n
So, you turn on the kettle.<\/p>\n
Grab a cup.<\/p>\n
Take out a chamomile tea bag. Yes, chamomile\u2026 <\/p>\n
And you understand everything. At least in theory. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
We\u2019ve all met them. Women, men, it doesn\u2019t matter: the \u201cit\u2019s practically over\u201d type knows no gender, age, or geography. For convenience, I\u2019ll use the feminine, but the phenomenon is democratic. The scene is always the same: any evening, any social media, an innocent photo of yours\u2014maybe a cute dress\u2014and bam, the tiny thumbnail of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1021,"featured_media":900414,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[84],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-900413","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-omnibus"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n