It’s been eight months since I last saw him, and he is in town for one reason or another, although I don’t think I even ask why. I don’t want to know why. All I know is that it has been a long eight months, and the first of those eight were painful. The last time I saw him, I swore I would never see him again, but I always seem to break these promises when it comes to him. We are weaving through the streets of Monteverde–my neighborhood, what I like to call my perfectly quaint green world–after he picks me up from the door of my six-story, baby pink-colored building. There is silence and small chatter, and his body embraces my internally fragile one. My first instinct is to shrug him off, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve been hugged, so I let it slide. 

Let’s get a gelato, he says, gazing down at me. 

We walk into the tiny shop in the simple piazza at the edge of the neighborhood. It’s the type of gelateria where the smells are intoxicating, and you would only know to stop in via word of mouth. My eyes move upwards and downwards, reading each flavor until I reach my tried and true: pistachio–nutty and creamy, never overpoweringly sweet, the perfect pale yellow-green color. He orders three scoops: pistachio, followed by Nutella and mixed berry. “Panna?” (“Whipped cream?”) the woman behind the counter asks. “Dai,” he replies, “Why not.” 

“Per te?” (For you?) she asks me. No, nothing, I reply. As much as I want to dive in, the pit hasn’t left the bottom of my stomach since I stepped outside. He twists the cone between his fingers to get a taste of each individual flavor and hands me a tiny plastic spoon. He pauses between each to let me dig in for a taste of my own. 

“Which is your favorite?” I ask. 

“Pistacchio, always pistacchio,” as he wipes the creases of his mouth with the crumpled up napkin that was wrapped around the cone. 

I nod, “Mine too.” 

There’s more silence, and, as his tall stature hovers over me, we make our way to the park. My mind starts to wander. There is so much I don’t know about him: somehow he always remains a mystery, but each time we are together, he unintentionally reveals a small piece of his life. I grab each piece and put it into an invisible pocket. There are the obvious details, like where he grew up, how many siblings he has, and what he does for work. Then there are the small rhythms he moves to or the choices he makes that match mine. Our first choice of gelato is pistachio, except he picks a cone and I prefer a cup. We both know almost every word to “Chariot” by Gavin DeGraw, but I think I know more. When we are out and hear the laughter of an innocent child, we don’t keep walking but pause, observe and smile. He has dreams and ambitions, first about work and then maybe about life, although I only know a bit about the former. He is a Libra–mostly balanced, charming, diplomatic–and I am a Taurus–stubborn, emotional, persistent. He is always late, and I am always on time. 

I get out of my head as we brush shoulder to shoulder beneath the sweeping pine trees of Villa Pamphili. He spots a group of five young boys passing a soccer ball back and forth, and his eyes light up. When he asks if he can join them, their eyes light up in return. I sit on a tree stump overlooking the game as the park echoes with laughter and his cheers of bravissimo.  

I write to my friend telling her how I feel, even if I don’t know myself. 

“It’ll pass, Ella. Just like everything, it will pass,” she writes back. And I think that is the thing I am most afraid of: life passing by for one reason or another and the person you love, going along with it, finally leaving you behind.