𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐭 𝐃𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐚
25 years old, a billionaire and Mafia Don. Everyone fears, admires and respects him.
𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐬
20 years old and works in a bakery. Despite having a bad past, she is a really sweet and down-to-earth per...
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The silver-grey sky beyond the towering arched windows looked as though it had been painted with melancholy itself.
From my seat near the edge of the vast lecture hall, I watched thick clouds gather above Rome, hanging low over the ancient city like a heavy curtain. The sunlight had long since disappeared behind the thick overcast, leaving the world muted and colourless beneath it's shadow.
Even from inside the warmth of the university, I could almost feel the chill lingering beyond the glass, slipping through the ancient streets and elegant buildings of the city. It was a melancholic kind of weather that seemed perfectly designed to mirror the hollow ache lodged inside my chest.
Around me, the enormous lecture hall buzzed with life.
Students occupied nearly every row of seats ahead, their voices merging together into a blur of murmuring conversations. Some whispered amongst themselves while taking notes. Others exchanged amused smiles and quiet laughter. A few seemed more interested in their phones than the lecture itself.
Normal.
Everyone looked awfully normal.
Meanwhile, I felt as though I had spent the last several days wandering through a maze I couldn't escape.
At the front of the gallery, Professor Moretti continued his lecture with his usual unwavering composure, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. He paced slowly across the podium.
"The Theory of Perception and the psychology of form." He started, gesturing toward the projected slides behind him. "Concern themselves with how the human mind interprets visual information. We do not simply see colour and space. We assign meaning to them."
Usually, I loved this subject. In fact, it was one of my favourites.
I loved understanding why certain colors evoked specific emotions. Why some paintings felt warm while others felt isolating. Why a single brushstroke could communicate grief better than a thousand words.
The idea that two people could stare at the exact same painting and walk away with completely different emotions fascinated me. Art wasn't merely something beautiful to look at. It was all about perception, interpretation, memory and emotion.
Yet today, I couldn't bring myself to focus.
Every word entering my one ear seemed to leave through the other. My pale levender notebook sat open before me. The page remained almost entirely blank, because my thoughts were elsewhere.
Or rather, on someone.
It has been almost a week since the catastrophe that took place in Moscow. A week since Elliott had taken a bullet for me and nearly bled to death. A week since he had looked me in the eye and uttered the words that I never thought I would possibly hear from him.
