“That’s so inspiring,” I say quietly, and he nods in agreement.
We spend the next two hours discussing the paintings, seeing the different perspectives we each bring to the pieces, before others from the program begin popping into the gallery to study their own.
“Would you like to get a late lunch with me?” Paolo asks, and before I can answer, my empty stomach growls in response.
I give him a sheepish grin before nodding. “That would be great!”
“So that guyoutside your hotel last night…was he your boyfriend?”
Paolo picks up his glass of house red and brings it to his lips as he watches me carefully. I bite my lip while I use my spoon to push around my bowl of ribollita, releasing a deep breath.
“I don’t know if I can say wewereor that wearedating. We have a long history, but to me that’s exactly what it is,” I hold his gaze, “History.”
His eyes light up with relief and I don’t miss the small smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. I almost feel guilty for saying that, considering everything Gabriel and I did last night, but that was a mistake—a moment of weakness that I won’t be repeating again.
“He doesn’t seem to think that,” Paolo muses.
I laugh lightly, refilling my wine glass “I think when people are passionate about what they want, it can be hard to let go.”
He hums in agreement. “I know that feeling all too well.”
“What made you pursue art?” I ask, shifting the focus onto him. “Like, how did you know it was your calling?”
Paolo might be a little lost when it comes to finding inspiration, but he at least knows what he’s looking for. He stares at his glass with a frown and I almost regret asking, worried I’ve overstepped.
“Life was very chaotic for me when I was a boy,” he starts, not meeting my eyes. “My parents…they…probably never should have married. Whenever they would start fighting, it was always so loud, so I would sneak off to small museums to find somewhere quiet to exist.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” I say, placing my hand atop his.
He flips his hand and takes a hold of mine, finally meeting my gaze with a small smile. “Museums became my safe place, and I guess one day I just decided I wanted to create something beautiful of my own, because to me beauty felt orderly when life didn't."
“And you fell in love with it?”
He nods. “Over time art stopped being my escape and instead it was my devotion.”
“That’s so beautiful,” I say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “So did your parents send you to art school after that?”
Paolo shakes his head.“ My parents weren’t very supportive of me pursuing art as a career, so they refused to help me. I started off just trying to recreate some of my favourite paintings in the museums I would visit, and then when I felt confident enough I would paint in public and sell those pieces, until one day I’d saved enough to afford an education for myself.”
“What’s it like to have something that makes you feel so fulfilled?”
He leans back, thoughtful. “It’s like breathing deeper than you knew you could. Time slips, hours pass, but you don’t resentit; you’re grateful for it. You finish and you’re tired—but in a good way. Like you’ve made something meaningful exist that didn’t before.”
“That sounds like exactly what I hope to feel again one day,” I say, because it’s been a very long time since surfing did that for me.
He exhales softly, a small smile dancing on his lips. “It becomes addictive though. Like a drug.”
My brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
He chuckles, releasing my hand and picking up his glass again. “It’s…consuming. You forget to eat and sleep because nothing else feels urgent aside from chasing that feeling.” He pauses, staring down at his wine as he gently tips the glass around. “It’s a rush, and when it’s gone everything becomes dull. Like a withdrawal.”
I realize that’s what he must be going through, and maybe I am too. I used to get the biggest rush when I surfed, back when surfing was still just for fun. But lately, my life feels so dull. Not to mention, I’m halfway across the world chasing a feeling I haven’t felt in a very long time. I’m definitely in some sort of withdrawal.
“Let’s eat, shall we?” Paolo says, bringing my attention back to the present. “There’s somewhere I’d like to show you after this.”
After lunch,I follow Paolo through a maze of narrow cobbled streets until the space suddenly opens up around us into a widesquare. People fill every part of it—walking, talking, and even pausing for photos.
I look around, and notice the statues that stand out in the open, carved in pale stone and dark bronze. Tourists gather around them, pointing, posing for pictures, and circling for better angles. There’s also a towering building with a tall clocked tower anchoring one side of the square, the rough stone darker than everything else around it.
