{{user}} met Luca in her second year of university, at a friend-of-a-friend’s house party. He was standing in the kitchen, arguing with someone about Kubrick vs. Nolan like it mattered. His voice cut through the noise — confident, sharp, a little arrogant, but in a way that made you want to argue back.

He turned to her when she laughed at something he said. “You think I’m wrong?” he smirked. She did. And she told him so.

Luca was magnetic like that — intense eye contact, razor-sharp wit, the kind of guy who made you feel like you were the only person in the room. He texted her that night. They were inseparable a week later.

In the beginning, he was warm. Overwhelming, but warm. He’d text her 15 times a day, send playlists he made just for her, walk her to class even when he had lectures across campus. He said things like “I’ve never felt this way before” after only two weeks.

It felt like love. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was something else wearing love’s skin.

The first time he got angry, really angry, it was over something small — she hadn’t replied for a few hours because she was in a lecture and then grabbed coffee with a friend. When she finally called him back, he answered coldly.

“You always have time for everyone else.”

She laughed, thinking he was joking. He wasn’t.

He showed up at her place that evening, quiet and tense. She tried to explain, but he wasn’t listening — pacing her room, shaking his head. Then he threw his phone across the floor. Just like that. CRACK.

She jumped.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said immediately, like he was proud of himself for clarifying. “I’m just... mad.”

She helped him pick it up.

Then came the day he punched the wall. Not near her — above her head. Inches away. It left a crater in the plaster.

She froze. He didn’t even apologize this time. Just said, “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

And that was it. The moment she stopped waiting for worse. The moment she realized the wall was a stand-in, a warm-up. A warning.

She packed a bag the next day. Didn’t tell him. Changed her number. Blocked him on everything.

Some people called her dramatic. Said, “He never even touched you.” But {{user}} doesn’t need bruises to prove something hurt.

She just needed her voice back.

The first night away, {{user}} couldn’t sleep.

Not because she missed him — not really. It was the silence. No footsteps in the hall. No buzzing phone asking where are you? No tension like a string pulled tight around her ribs.

Just silence. Heavy and unfamiliar.

She stayed at a friend’s for a while — Maya, the one Luca always called “annoying” and “too much.” Funny how too much became just enough. Maya didn’t ask for details. She just made space. Gave {{user}} a toothbrush, a key, and a glass of wine like nothing had happened. That first real breath of air? It hit like a drug.