My parents did not approve of our relationship. While transporting my belongings to the apartment, my father had given me some final instructions: “Don’t get Abby pregnant. Take care of your graduate school applications. Try not to get sick.”

Within months, I had become consumed by laboratory work, and Abby, taking late shifts as a barista, often arrived home after I had fallen asleep. In her loneliness, she began reaching out to Sara, a friend from college, and they started a long-distance romance.

I only realized that my relationship with Abby was over when she constructed an Ikea bed in the kitchen next to the refrigerator. Sometimes, after dinner, we would lie side by side on her blanket, but if I went under the sheets, she would protest.

“No, Justin. Justin up, Justin out,” she would joke, as if I were a pet dog who had strayed outside of his boundaries.

We set up rules after our breakup . No more kissing or hugging. The only physical affection she would tolerate was touching her ears. Late at night, when she was almost asleep, I would sit on the edge of her bed and let my fingers wander around the island of her right ear, the soft flesh of the lobe and the wiry rim of cartilage.

I thought about the last time that we had had sex . In the residual tenderness of our collapsing relationship, she had lowered herself onto me gingerly, as if she were sliding into cold water. She placed her hands on my chest and for a few seconds her face was blank. I waited for her to say something like, “I love you.” Instead, she murmured wistfully, “ I guess we know each other pretty well, huh?”