Milan was colder than I expected—sleek, stylish, always buzzing. The streets felt like they belonged to people who knew exactly who they were. I wasn't one of them yet. But I was trying.
I found a small apartment tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore. It wasn't much, but it smelled like lavender and old paper, and that was enough to make it feel like home. I began my nursing classes during the day, and in the evenings, I poured myself into sketching. Somehow, even as my stethoscope draped around my neck, a pencil always seemed to rest between my fingers.
Every so often, I'd pause while drawing and think of him—Antonio—how he used to tilt his head slightly when he read something, the way he used to glance at me like I was a mystery he loved unfolding. But I didn't let those thoughts linger too long. I wasn't here to dwell on the past. I was here to build something new.
Weeks turned into months.
I made a few friends—Chiara, who spoke in fast Italian and always wore red lipstick, and Luca, who helped me carry my portfolio to design classes when I was running late. They never asked much about my past. Maybe they saw it in my eyes—that part of me was still healing. But they let me be. And that was enough.
One evening, while showcasing my sketches at a local exhibit, a tall man with kind eyes approached me.
"You have emotion in your lines," he said, pointing to a dress design that looked almost like it was floating. "Like you're drawing someone you miss."
I smiled tightly. "Maybe I am."
That night, I sat by the window, watching the streetlights blur in the fog, and thought of Antonio. Wondered if he'd kept writing. Wondered if he still whispered my name into the dark.
But even if he didn't—I was proud of who I was becoming.
I was no longer the girl waiting for love to make her whole.
I was the woman who loved, lost, and kept moving forward—with grace, grit, and a sketchbook full of dreams.
It was a rainy Thursday in Milan after few weeks.
I had just returned from my clinical shift, exhausted, my shoes soaked, and my fingers numb from holding an umbrella that kept turning inside out.
I tossed my bag onto the couch, changed into dry clothes, and made tea—my evening ritual. While waiting for the kettle, I absentmindedly opened my old sketchbook from home. I hadn't touched this one in months.
But something fluttered out.
A small, folded piece of parchment. I didn't remember placing it there.
Confused, I picked it up and saw a familiar handwriting—Antonio's. But this wasn't the letter I'd received before leaving. This one looked older. The ink was slightly faded, and the fold creases soft, like it had been hidden away for a long time.
Selene,
There were words I never had the courage to say out loud—so I wrote them down, even if I never gave them to you. This might never reach you, but if it does, I want you to know…
I loved you when you walked away.
I loved you when I watched you walk into the classroom that day, clueless about how much you were about to mean to me.
And I still love you now, wherever you are.
—Antonio
I sat frozen on the floor. The rain outside had stopped, but inside, it was pouring.
My tea had gone cold.
This letter… it wasn't a message sent to change the course of my life. It was a confession lost in time, somehow waiting for me in the pages of my own art. A message from the boy who never stopped loving me—even in silence.
I didn't know what this meant yet. But I knew something had shifted.
Maybe fate wasn't done with us yet.