Wanderlust and whispers

rn to. The early morning sun painted the cobblestones in hues of gold and amber, casting long shadows from the iron arches above.

stones, lovers kissing with urgency, conductors calling out destinations in rapid Ita

ion itself. Ink was smudged in places - maybe from his fingers, maybe from her tears. Though written in English, every line pulsed with his accent, those gentle

r was both a confession and a plea - not for her to stay, but simply to remember. It wasn't dramatic or grandiose. He hadn't begged her. He didn't ask her to give up everything

s though that might somehow keep him closer, just a little longer. T

the breeze from the slightly ajar window, letting in the scents of espresso and rising bread from the café downstairs. She had sat on the narrow windowsill with a lukewarm cup in her hand, w

e floor echoed like a goodbye. It had all felt surreal - leaving a city that had begun to feel like a chapter she never meant

m. Their hands had brushed - once, twice - like the beginning of a sentence neither of them had the courage to fi

spered, not trusting hers

ay her scarf curled around her neck, the shape of her mouth when she was trying not to cry, the faint tremble in her hands. His eyes searche

d familiar subway routes. The other, a quieter world, painted in watercolor tones and Italian syllables, where love had bloomed unexpectedly, w

d passengers toward the doors. Her train - the one that would take h

pigeons across the platform. A woman shouted his name, annoyed and amused. Somewhere nearby, an elderly coupl

had slowed. Each second

she

y outlined like a travel itinerary. Florence wasn't home. He wasn't certainty. He was risk and poetry, lat

d the faintest hint of his cologne - or maybe she imagined that. Her lips parted, a

st wasn'

e took one step toward

istance. Only then did she let herself fold over the letter, clutching it like a life raft. Silent t

was beh

ork a

her

mewhere i