Lucia’s smile appears, brief and sharp.
“Good.”
Chapter Two
Serena
The week stretches in gold and heat. I drink espresso standing up. I eat peaches over the bathroom sink because there’s no graceful way to eat a peach that ripe in a white hotel room. I walk streets I know and streets I don’t, letting Rome rearrange my sense of direction without making me feel lost. I sit in churches because they’re cool and quiet and because every city needs places where no one expects you to buy anything. I watch old women choose bread with more discernment than most editors bring to commas.
At 4:00 PM, the city turns difficult.
By 6:30 PM, it forgives itself.
The late afternoon light slides down building facades, catches on window glass, and turns the stone the color of warm honey. Rome knows exactly when it looks best. It doesn’t pretend otherwise. I respect that kind of arrogance when it’s earned.
I’m almost entirely fine. That’s the phrase I keep returning to.
Almost.
Entirely.
Fine.
There are hours when I don’t think about Ethan at all. They arrive cleanly, without effort. A morning at the market. A paragraph that lands right on the first try. The first bite of a dish that knows what it’s doing. A walk across the Ponte Sisto when the river below looks green and tired and older than everyone crossing it.
Then there are moments when his absence appears in places where his presence used to be routine.
A table for one, confirmed without apology.
A hotel bed with only my suitcase on the other side.
A menu I don’t have to tilt toward anyone else.
A joke I don’t send.
The moments don’t ruin anything. They pass through, leave fingerprints, and move on.
On the fourth night, I almost answer him. Not because I want to, but because I’m tired. That’s the thing people don’t say enough. Sometimes the weakest part of you isn’t longing. It’s fatigue. It’s the hour after a full day when your feet hurt, your hair smells like a restaurant you didn’t love, and the bed is too clean, too empty, too obviously temporary. It’s the soft little instinct to return to what’s known, not because it was good, but because knowing requires less effort than building something new from scratch.
I sit at the desk in my hotel room with my phone in my hand and Ethan’s thread open. His last message remains there.
Ethan: Please. I know you’re in Europe. I don’t want to do this over text.
I start typing. Then I stop. There’s nothing to say that won’t invite him closer. I delete the three words I managed and I close the thread. I open my notes from dinner instead. The restaurant was too clever by half, but the second course had promise. Therewas a fennel broth I didn’t hate. That feels more useful than giving Ethan access to my weaker hour.
At 11:46 PM, Diana messages.
Diana: Rome piece is exceptional. The carbonara paragraph especially. Don’t soften the ending.
Serena: Wasn’t planning to.
Diana: You always say that, then remove the sentence that makes people uncomfortable.
Serena: I remove sentences that are imprecise.
Diana: Sometimes discomfort is precise.
Serena: That sounds like something you’d put on a mug to frighten interns.
