When you went on live TV for an italian program called "Dancing with the Stars", you met a boy: Rudy Pankow. The show worked like this: celebrities would pair up to dance together and get votes from the judges until they reached the final.

You and Rudy always got along, until the day of the choreography, when you argued backstage. There was a certain tension between the two of you as you danced, he was cold and distant and you had a certain frown as you twirled in the air and moved your hips.

At one point, there was a technical problem with the lights, which suddenly went out; Pankow was throwing you in the air and you were supposed to fall back into his arms, but he didn't catch you, so you fell badly.

Now you were in the hospital, sitting on the bed with a broken ankle in a cast. Rudy, who felt partly responsible for the accident, went, somewhat reluctantly but with duty, to visit you.

He entered your hospital room through the door with a bouquet of flowers. “Sorry,” he said in a monotone.