Letters To Rome

6

     My head is pounding, like, actually pounding. The kind of headache that makes you regret every decision from the night before, even if you can't remember a single one. I blink a few times, trying to get my eyes to focus, and that's when I realize... this isn't my room.

I shoot up, heart racing. My sheets—well, not mine—are this deep gray, the kind that looks like they belong to a man who actually irons his bed covers. The walls are brick white, minimalistic, and there's this smell—coffee, mixed with Dior Sauvage. My stomach twists.

Where the hell am I?

I grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up so bright it blinds me for a second. Thirty-two missed calls. Fifteen texts. All from Mamma.

Oh my God.

I scroll through them with shaky fingers.

mamma: where are you????
mamma: i'm worried, francesca.
mamma: call me back now.
mamma: if I don't hear from you in 10 minutes, i'm calling the police.

I swing my legs off the bed and my feet hit cold stone. Definitely not my Airbnb. This place is huge and definitely too... masculine. There's a sleek black jacket thrown over a chair, men's shoes lined up by the door, and a faint scent of cologne still hanging in the air.

Oh shit. Is this Ale's apartment?

I stand up too fast, my head spinning. "Hello?" I call out. No answer. I try again, a little louder this time. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

Silence.

I wrap my arms around myself and start walking through the apartment, careful, like maybe someone's about to appear out of thin air. The living room is modern, open, a little too tidy—like he tried to make it look perfect for someone. There's a half-empty glass of water on the counter, a few papers, keys, and a book in Italian about economics.

I need to know whose place this is. I flip through the economics book, hoping for a clue, but all I find are a few pages covered in green highlighter. I then open one of the drawers in the hallway table, trying to find something—anything—that might give me an answer. There's paper, a sketchbook, some receipts, a pair of sunglasses. Nothing that has a name. Nothing that helps.

I exhale, pressing a hand to my forehead. I still have no idea where I am.

I walk toward the kitchen, hoping for water. On the counter, there's a folded note and next to it, a plate covered with a cloth napkin. My throat goes dry. I unfold the note slowly, my heart thumping so loud I can hear it in my ears.

"Had to step out for a bit. There's water in the fridge and I made you breakfast — eat something and rest a little. Feel free to help yourself to anything you need."

The handwriting is neat and strong.

I look to the side and see the breakfast left out: a simple plate with a toasted ciabatta sandwich, prosciutto and cheese, and a glass of orange juice. My stomach growls, but I'm too confused to even think about eating.

He... made me breakfast?

I stare at the note again, reading it over and over. There's something weirdly intimate about it, but also comforting. Still, I feel my cheeks heat up. I can't believe this is happening.

I wander into what must be his bedroom, glancing around for any clue, any explanation. And then I see it—on the dresser, a photo frame. It's him.