Fate escorted him into my life. But, little did I know, fate would also be the thing that ripped him away.
I’d touched down onto Italian soil for the first time, butterflies fluttering in my stomach like never before. I was sick with anticipation. The terminal doors slid open to reveal the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
He oozed confidence. I was drawn to him like a magnet, weak in the knees. I no longer had control. I’ll never forget the first time he uttered my name. It rolled off his tongue like honey, his accent like sweet music to my ears. He called me his little merendina (snack) or coccinella (ladybug). I’m a total sucker for accents; someone could possess zero good qualities but have a foreign accent, and I’d still swoon.
Mine spoke French, Italian, and English fluently–I was obsessed. He picked me up at MXP airport in his sporty, black Alfa Romeo. It was immaculate inside, but wreaked of Parisienne cigarettes. Surprisingly, the smell didn’t offend me. It actually turned me on. It quickly became obvious that he appreciated the finer things in life. I didn’t protest.
Time travel backward six months: I’m two glasses of red wine deep, infused with liquid courage, watching the sunset over the Ionian sea. I’d been solo traveling Albania for three months and was desperate to find English-speaking companions on Tinder. I was constantly swiping left (swiping left is a no-go for my virgins to online dating apps), and then, I saw him. Mysterious. Stylish. Skin sunkissed to olive perfection. My thumbs instinctively motioned right, and apparently so did his.
Hours of my day became dedicated to conversations with him. We couldn’t get enough. You might be thinking, Albania’s a stone’s throw away from Italy. Why didn’t you puddle-jump over to meet him?
Two words: Peak COVID.
Fast forward to the Milan airport, where my long-time fantasy becomes reality. I felt a fire burn within me when we first kissed. My legs melted from underneath me. His kisses were trance-inducing. Faint-worthy. Addicting. The two of us, divinely intertwined souls, explored the magic that is Italy. One month. No plans. Nowhere to be. The world was our oyster.
Our mornings were filled with cornetti, caffé macchiatos, and fresh-pressed spremuta. Our afternoons with cobbled-stones strolls and fior di latte flavored gelato. Our evenings with hand-rolled spliffs, belly laughs, and pasta.
My Italian fantasy lasted for years. I’d work my ass off and save, so I could escape to my second home in Europe every six-ish months. He was always halfway across the planet, awaiting my arrival with his luxury Italian car and perfectly manicured curls. With each visit, came new realizations (getting to know someone progresses much slower when you see each other twice a year).
My fantasy began to fade. A relationship, especially a long-distance one, requires mutual energy exchange. Effort. I was all in, but the feelings weren’t mutual. I would have packed my few belongings and transported my life to Italy for him in a heartbeat. But after years of flights booked, polaroids snapped, and passionate kisses exchanged, my adventure came to an end.
…we were never meant to last forever.
He wasn’t ready to take a risk. We weren’t on the same page, or even reading the same book. Maybe we were in lust, not love. My soul, however, will always yearn for what once was–losing myself to him, and to Italy.
P.S. I know I’ll find my way back to you, Italy. It’ll just have to be without him.
