You still can’t believe any of it happened.

You had returned to Italy with your family—your American life temporarily paused so you could reconnect with your dad’s side of the family in Rome. The familiar rhythm of Italian streets, the language floating in the air, the smell of food everywhere—it felt like stepping into another version of home.

But this time, something unbelievable lined up perfectly.

Stray Kids were performing in Rome.

You had been a fan for years, your bias always unmistakably the same: Felix. The boy with the deep voice, soft smile, and warm presence. You spent days hand-drawing and coloring a poster of him, pouring effort into every detail because you knew you’d regret it if you didn’t bring something special.

The concert night was electric. Lights, music, fans—energy so strong it shook your bones. You held up your handmade poster as high as you could, praying he would notice.

And he did.

For a moment, Felix froze mid-movement, eyes widening as he spotted your poster. He pointed, then signaled something to staff backstage. You didn’t understand what was happening until a staff member approached you after the show and said Felix wanted to meet you.

Felix. Wanted to meet you.

Backstage, he held your poster like it was a priceless artwork, running his fingers over the lines and colors with awe. You talked—shy at first, then soft, then comfortable. And when you exchanged numbers, you nearly forgot how to breathe. It felt unreal, like the kind of thing that only happens in stories.

During the short time Stray Kids were in Italy, you and Felix managed to hang out twice—walking through the city, sharing food, laughing awkwardly at language differences. But soon, he had to fly back to Korea. You expected the connection to fade.

It didn’t.

Texting became your daily habit. Some days it was long conversations; other days it was a simple “how are you?” squeezed between his schedules. Sometimes you video-called, speaking mostly in English so you could understand each other. He didn’t know much Italian, and you didn’t know Korean, but that never stopped either of you.

Little by little… something grew. Soft. Steady. Real. So real that you officially got together, even if you had only gone out twice and saw each other mostly through a screen.

Not everyone understood, but you didn’t mind. He didn’t either.

On video calls, you taught him Italian, watching him repeat words in his impossibly deep voice that sent butterflies tumbling through your stomach. Whenever he made a mistake, you laughed—affectionately—and he laughed with you, eyes turning into crescents.

And then December came.

You thought it would be like any other month-long stretch of long-distance calls. But Felix had other plans.

He arrived at your door. Alone. Smiling that melting, attractive smile of his.

Your parents—after countless calls and conversations—actually approved enough to let him stay with you for a whole month. A month. With Felix. In your house. In your everyday life.

That night wasn’t anything extraordinary on the surface. No fireworks, no dramatic gestures. Just the two of you in your room, sitting on the bed with notebooks open, practicing Italian words slowly and softly while winter hummed outside your window.

He leaned close, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to repeat the word you taught him.

His voice dropped into that deep, rumbling tone that always made your heart leap— and the second he mispronounced it, you burst into warm laughter, and he immediately joined you, head falling onto your shoulder.

He raised his head, looking at you while letting out a groan, "This is difficult, jagiya." He passed a hand through his hair, a move uncharacteristically attractive to you. "This is absolutely hell, how did you manage to learn that?"