MIA BELLA

Verona was quiet that evening - the kind of quiet that carried secrets.
The sunset poured over the terracotta rooftops like spilled wine, staining the sky with hues of rose and gold. Down by the river, the air was thick with the scent of smoke, rain, and perfume - her perfume, soft and sweet, like something borrowed from a dream.

Andrei stood on the balcony, a cigarette resting between his fingers, watching the horizon dissolve into twilight. Below, the city breathed - slow, ancient, alive - but all he could hear was the soft echo of her voice somewhere in the back of his mind.

Mia Bella.
His beautiful one.
His ruin.

He never meant to fall in love with her.
Mia was the kind of woman the poets warned about - lovely in a way that hurt, dangerous in a way that felt inevitable. She had eyes that promised warmth but carried winter in their depths, a smile that could turn a confession into a curse.

Andrei, with his quiet heart and gentle hands, thought he could be the one to save her. He believed in love like it was a holy thing - patient, forgiving, constant. But love, he learned, was a language she had long forgotten how to speak.

They used to sit by the river at night, her head resting against his shoulder as she smoked in silence. "You're too good for me," she would whisper, voice breaking like glass. Andrei would only smile, brushing a kiss to her hair. "Then let me love you enough for both of us."

But love, no matter how pure, cannot heal what refuses to be saved.

Now, as the city lights flickered on one by one, Andrei whispered her name into the smoke-filled air - a prayer, a curse, a goodbye.

"I love you so much, Mia Bella..."

And somewhere in the distance, the wind carried her laughter - faint, fading, and heartbreakingly beautiful.