Between the Lines

Chapter 1 (First part)

I hated needing help. I hated it more than anything. Growing up, I learned that being vulnerable was like handing someone a weapon. And in my family, no one hesitated to use it. We were wealthy—beyond wealthy, really—but that only seemed to make things worse. My parents, obsessed with their own version of success, didn't care much about me. I was their second daughter, not the son they wanted. They barely had time for one daughter, let alone two.

From a young age, I watched them dote on my older sister, molding her into the perfect image of what they valued: beauty, elegance, and absolute ambition. My sister thrived in that ruthless environment. I didn't. By the time I was ten, I knew how invisible I was. Not enough to ignore, but never enough to care for. I was just... there, and the only way to survive was to keep my distance and do things on my own.

That's probably why architecture appealed to me. It was about building something from scratch, creating structure out of chaos. But right now, chaos was all I had, as I stared at the half-done mess of my project. The design was supposed to reflect creativity, precision, and balance—three things I felt were falling apart in my life. My professor had noticed my struggle long before I was ready to admit it.

"Elisa, this is not your best work." Professor Moretti's voice was calm but pointed. He had that annoying ability to look at your soul and see every mistake. "You need help, and I've already arranged for it."

My stomach twisted. "I don't need a tutor," I muttered. The last thing I wanted was some stranger poking at my insecurities.

The professor didn't even look up from his clipboard. "Marcello is one of the best students in the program. He'll help you."

Marcello. I knew the name. He was that guy everyone whispered about in the halls—brilliant, intense, and completely unbearable. The type who probably studied algorithms for fun and had a schedule planned down to the minute. We'd never spoken, but I'd seen him around, always buried in his laptop or scribbling away in a notebook like the world depended on it. The idea of working with someone like that made my skin crawl. Serious people like Marcello reminded me too much of my family—too much of everything I hated.

The professor glanced up, noting my hesitation. "I'm not suggesting this, Elisa. This is what you need if you want to improve." His words stung, not because he was wrong, but because he was right.

I dragged myself up the grand staircase, each step feeling heavier than the last. The house was its usual dead quiet, the kind of silence that presses on your ears. My bedroom was supposed to be my refuge, but it felt more like a prison. I pushed open the huge wooden door and stepped into the room that was so fucking big it felt like a hotel suite.

Everything in here was just as my parents wanted it—luxurious and cold. The massive bed, with its perfectly arranged pillows and fancy linens, looked more like a damn showroom piece than a place to actually crash. The walls, adorned with expensive art, only highlighted how impersonal and fake this place felt.

Despite the pristine exterior of the house, my room was a fucking mess. Sketches and blueprints were strewn everywhere—on the floor, over the desk, even draped over the furniture. Books on architecture were piled haphazardly, some open to pages marked with colourful sticky notes. I threw myself onto the bed, which was still somewhat buried under a heap of crumpled paper and unfinished projects. Staring up at the high ceiling, I felt completely out of place. The room was so silent, it was like it was mocking me.

I grabbed a pillow, buried my face in it, and let out a frustrated growl. The soft fabric did nothing to muffle the hurricane in my head. I kept thinking about how I could never quite measure up, no matter how hard I tried. It was exhausting, this constant pressure to be someone I wasn't.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I pushed myself off the bed and stomped to the bathroom, hoping a change of scene might clear my head. I flicked on the harsh fluorescent lights, glaring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Hazel eyes stared back at me, framed by dark waves of hair that fell over my shoulders. My pale skin looked even more washed out under the brutal light. People said I had the "perfect" look—curvy body, heart-shaped lips, everything my parents prized. But all I saw was someone trying desperately to fit a mold that felt too tight, someone who felt like they could never be good enough.

I ran my fingers through my hair, letting out a shaky breath. I leaned against the sink, staring at the sink's surface, feeling overwhelmed by the pressure to be more than what everyone expected. It was like I was constantly fighting to keep up with an image that didn't even feel like mine. And now I was supposed to work with some Marcello. The thought annoyed me, even if I knew I needed the help. My parents would have seen it as a weakness, another failure in a long list of disappointments.

The next day, I met Marcello for the first time in the university's library, my mood already sour. He was there before me, of course sitting at a table with a stack of books and that same serious expression I'd seen him wear in the halls. He didn't even look up when I walked over. Just said, "You're late," without bothering to check his watch.

I clenched my jaw. "Yeah, traffic," I lied, dropping my bag on the chair opposite him. I didn't owe him an explanation.

He finally glanced up, and for a moment, our eyes met. His were dark, intense, as if he was already judging me. I hated that feeling, like I was on trial. Like I had to prove myself yet again. His hair was slightly dishevelled, though you could tell he tried to keep it neat—he probably thought looking professional was the key to success, or something like that.

"Let's get started," he said curtly, without any pleasantries. It wasn't a question. It was a command.

I rolled my eyes but pulled out my design sheets, already regretting every second of this. This wasn't going to work. There was no way. But as he started talking, diving into my design and pointing out mistakes, I had to admit—at least to myself—he knew what he was talking about.

But that didn't make me like him anymore.