In the shadow of Naples

12.

Today begins like an ordinary workday. The hospital buzzes with activity, but it's an organized chaos. The routine brings me a calm that I always appreciate, but today there's something in the air, something I can't quite place. The city seems calm, yet beneath the surface, there's an unease simmering, invisible but palpable.

The hospital breathes easier now that the men with guns are gone. Their presence had brought a stifling tension, as if the walls themselves were on edge. But even without them, a coldness lingers a distance that Giovanni and I both seem to nurture. He, like me, is building a wall between us. And yet, no matter how hard I try to focus on my work, something gnaws at me. A new, unfamiliar feeling that surfaces every time I see him smile at one of my colleagues. A smile she eagerly returns.

I should feel relieved that he keeps his distance, that he doesn't try to break through my walls. But instead, it feels like a loss, as if something elusive is slipping away from me. It stings in ways I hadn't anticipated. His subtle response to her flirtations stirs something inside me that I'd rather not face: jealousy. But that's something I'd never admit, not even to myself.

Work thankfully offers some distraction. I have a brief meeting with a few colleagues about the progress of our patients. We discuss who can go home and who still needs extra care. As a trauma surgeon, my work is intense and demands my full attention. As we go over the files, I feel a sense of pride in what we're accomplishing together. Patient after patient is carefully reviewed, and the team works like a well-oiled machine. It provides a brief moment of peace amid my emotional storm.

After work, I've made plans to meet Maria and two of her friends. We're having dinner at Pizzeria da Michele, one of the best pizzerias in the city. It's a corner building with large windows overlooking a lively street, full of people enjoying the warm summer evening. The smell of fresh tomatoes and crispy pizza dough greets me before I even step inside.

When I arrive, Maria introduces me to her friends, Giulia and Alessia. Giulia, with her long dark hair and sparkling eyes, radiates an infectious energy. She laughs easily and hugs me as if we've been friends for years. Alessia is quieter, with a soft smile and an elegant demeanor. Her calm, comforting presence brings me a moment of relief. These women exude the confidence I've always admired in Italian women: a blend of warmth and charm.

The pizzeria is small and cozy, with wooden tables and a stone oven that dominates the open kitchen. The walls are lined with photos of celebrities who've eaten here, and the smell of freshly baked bread and melting cheese fills the room. The atmosphere is exactly what I need relaxed and unpretentious.

We order our pizzas, each choosing a personal favorite. Giulia goes for the classic Margherita, Alessia for a prosciutto and arugula pizza, and Maria chooses the Quattro Formaggi. I opt for the Marinara simple yet packed with flavor. As we wait, we talk about everything and nothing: work, travel, family.

After dinner, we decide to have a drink at a nearby terrace. The evening is warm, and the city seems to surrender to a calm, almost dreamy atmosphere. We sit outside, under a sky full of stars, and order a few glasses of white wine. The conversations flow easily, accompanied by soft music and the murmurs of others around us.

But despite the relaxation, there's a nagging feeling inside me. The peace that hangs over the city feels unnatural, as if something is lurking in the shadows. My eyes scan the Terrace people laughing, talking, seemingly unaware of the threat in the air. Or maybe they're aware of it but have learned to ignore it, like so many in this city.

I try to relax, but the tension crawls under my skin. It feels as if eyes are on me, watching. My body tenses instinctively, ready to react to a danger I can't see. The evening suddenly feels longer, and I find myself longing for the safety of home, where I can shut out the world. The thought of a warm bath is tempting, and I begin counting the minutes until I can retreat to my own little sanctuary.

When we finally part ways, I say goodbye to Maria, Giulia, and Alessia. Their laughter and cheerful faces give me a moment of peace, but as soon as I'm alone, the tension returns. The streets of Naples are beautiful at night, but I can't shake the sense of lurking danger. As I walk home, I feel my heartbeat quicken, my eyes instinctively scanning my surroundings. The city, once so familiar, now feels like a place full of unknown threats.

When I finally reach home, I close the door behind me and release the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding all evening. I let the bath fill, and as the warm water envelops me, I try to let the events of the day wash away. But even in the quiet of my bathroom, I can't escape the feeling that something is lurking, waiting to emerge from the shadows and change everything.