with your suitcases prepared and your emotions bottled up, i left my now ex-girlfriend's apartment, booked a flight, and moved out into what would become my new life in Rome.

The city greeted you with a kind of chaos that felt oddly comforting — scooters buzzing past ancient ruins, the smell of espresso cutting through the morning chill, conversations rising and falling like music in a language you were still learning to love. You rented a small flat overlooking a narrow street where laundry hung between buildings like flags of everyday survival.

The first few nights were the hardest. Silence echoed louder than the traffic, and your reflection in the window looked like someone you hadn’t met yet. But each day, you walked — through Trastevere’s tangled alleys, along the Tiber’s quiet bends, under the forgiving sun — until the ache dulled into something like curiosity.

You learned how to order coffee without overthinking, how to get lost without panic, how to smile at strangers without expectation. Somewhere between the ruins and the rush, Rome began to stitch itself into you — not as an escape, but as a beginning.

Catching your girlfriend fucking another guy in your bed hadn't been exactly pleasant, but it had given you the chance to restart, so that's what you were doing, restart. Away from Toronto and the noise that came with it.

You made friends slowly, almost by accident.

There was Luca, the barista at the café below your apartment, who teased me for your terrible pronunciation but always slipped you an extra biscotto “for courage.” Then there was Chiara, an art student who painted sunsets on old postcards and claimed Rome was the only city that could look beautiful even when exhausted. You'd meet sometimes by the Spanish Steps, drinking cheap wine out of plastic cups, talking about everything and nothing. Then there was Gio, very energetic, almost too much, almost, Camille, a french girl with a curious blue hair colour, and her girlfriend, Giselle.

Through them, the city started to open up — dinners that stretched past midnight, laughter echoing in courtyards, stories spilling faster than the wine. You was still haunted, sometimes, by what you’d left behind, but it began to feel like a distant dream — blurry at the edges, fading with time.

Work came next — freelance writing for travel blogs, a few translation gigs, anything that kept you busy enough to stop checking her social media. You filled notebooks with observations: the rhythm of the streets, the way Italians argued like poets, how every moment seemed drenched in light.

Some nights, you'd walk home under the orange glow of street lamps, the air thick with the smell of rain and jasmine. And in those moments, you realized something — Rome wasn’t healing you. It was teaching you how to live again.

One night, you and your friendswere at a club, having fun, drinking, and that's when you saw her.

Her presence demanded attention, no, it was almost hypnotizing, the way everyone's eyes moved to her when she did.

She didn’t dance wildly or shout over the music. The pulse of the club seemed to slow when she passed through it. A shimmer of silver fabric caught the dim light as she turned, long blonde curly hair fell over her shoulders and brown eyes that shone with kindness, your eyes met hers ChatGPT ha dit:

—and for a heartbeat, the world went silent.

The bass faded, the laughter blurred, and all that remained was the space between you and her. She tilted her head slightly, a curious smile tugging at her lips.

You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe you did, maybe she did—but soon you were standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the faint scent of citrus and something floral you couldn’t name.

“Sei nuovo qui,” she said, her voice smooth, teasing. You’re new here.

Her accent wrapped around the words like silk. You stumbled through a reply in clumsy Italian, and she laughed—a low, genuine sound that felt like sunlight cracking through cloud.

“I’m new everywhere lately,” you said.

she chuckled, warm, inviting "I'm Alessia"