We were never going to last.
But for a while, we did.
And in that while, we lived as though time had paused just for us.
Matteo and I became a rhythm—slow, golden, breathless.
Mornings began with espresso and croissants in bed, the sheets crumpled and warm, sunlight spilling through old shutters. His hand would brush the inside of my thigh while he read aloud from some crumpled book of poetry he bought on a whim from a sidewalk stall. I never asked what time it was. That alone felt revolutionary.
Afternoons drifted into museums, then into parks where the air was thick with heat and possibility. I'd trace his shoulder with my fingertip while we lay beneath fig trees, ants crawling near our sandals, children shrieking in Italian nearby. He would murmur something in Sicilian and laugh when I tried to imitate him. I never got it right. He said I didn't have to.
At night, the city came alive—terracotta rooftops glowing under the amber haze of street lamps, accordion music floating in from the piazza. We drank red wine like it was oxygen. We whispered to each other in the language of skin. His mouth would find the hollow of my neck, and I'd forget the name of every man who came before him.
I let myself stop being impressive.
For the first time in years, I didn't lead.
Didn't guide the conversation toward impact or meaning.
Didn't ask, "What's next?"
I didn't have a plan.
Just a heartbeat and a linen dress.
He made everything feel softer.
We danced in the street without music, his arms loose around my waist, my laughter echoing louder than the bells from the nearby cathedral.
We got caught in the rain and didn't run for cover. He lifted my chin and kissed me like the thunder had been meant to soundtrack it.
I sang—off-key—in public, outside a gelateria. He clapped for me like I was on stage.
I laughed too loud.
I kissed without consequence.
I stopped checking my email.
And when I looked in the mirror one morning, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, salt drying on my skin from a spontaneous dip in the sea—I didn't see someone undone. I saw someone alive.
The lines around my eyes weren't exhaustion anymore—they were evidence.
Matteo told me stories about his childhood in Sicily. About his mother's garden full of lemons, about his Nonna who swore garlic cured everything, even heartbreak. He spoke of nights spent watching old black-and-white Italian films under the stars, the smell of jasmine thick in the air. He didn't pretend to be deep—he just was.
He didn't fix me.
Didn't ask me to change.
Didn't look at me like a puzzle.
And I didn't manage him.
Didn't wonder if he was "emotionally available."
Didn't take notes on what he said so I could unpack it in therapy later.
We just were.
We weren't building a future.
We were swimming in a present that shimmered like lake water—cool, unpredictable, and impossibly blue.
Sometimes I'd wake up before him and just watch. His lips parted in sleep, one hand curled against his chest like a child. I'd wonder who had loved him before me. I never asked. Some silences felt sacred.
And I think that's why it hurt so beautifully.
Because I knew it would end.
We both did.
We never said forever.
We said tonight.
We said, as long as it feels like this.
We were on a rooftop the day before he left for Lisbon.
Sunset bleeding through our wine glasses, our legs tangled on an old woven mat that smelled faintly of rosewater. I wanted to press the pause button on the sky.
He brushed my hair behind my ear and said,
"You are the kind of woman who stays everywhere, even when she leaves."
And I wanted to say stay.
I wanted to say take me with you.
I wanted to say this doesn't have to end.
But I didn't.
Because I knew.
And so did he.
We were a summer.
A poem.
A photograph that would never fully fade, no matter how far we both traveled from it.
So I smiled.
Kissed him like a period, not a question mark.
And whispered,
"Promise me you'll remember this."
He nodded.
"I will. But not as a fantasy. As the most real thing I had."
And for once, I didn't feel abandoned.
I felt… grateful.
Because some people don't come into your life to stay.
They come to remind you that you still know how to feel.
When I boarded the train back to Rome, a quiet part of me waited for a miracle.
But it didn't come.
No dramatic chase through a terminal. No grand confession.
Just goodbye, tucked into the folds of memory like a letter I'd never send.
I spent the last day in Italy alone—sat at a café with an espresso and a notebook, scribbling lines I didn't want to forget.
A heart can break gently, like a curtain drawn, like a song fading. And still, it sings.
I passed a small Filipino grocery store on the way back to my apartment. The smell of pandesal and Lucky Me noodles drifted out the door, and for a second, I was home. I bought a sachet of Kopiko coffee and a pack of Choc Nut, tucked them into my carry-on like talismans.
Matteo had been a season.
A beautiful one.
But I was taking myself into the next chapter.
With my sandals dusty from cobblestones, my heart softer but stronger, and my story still unfolding—one memory, one city, one goodbye at a time.