Lena
Lena st epped off the plane into the warm embrace of the Roman air, her carry-on slung over her shoulder and
David’s notes tucked neatly inside. She hadn’t planned to use them. When he’d sent the list, she’d barely
glanced at it, thinking it was just another attempt to cling to her. But now, standing in the Eternal City, her
curiosity had gotten the better of her. She checked into her boutique hotel near Piazza Navona, its wrought-iron
balcony draped with flowering plants. The concierge handed her a small key, and Lena ascended to her room,
feeling the surreal pull of being somewhere she’d dreamed of for years but had never quite managed to reach.
Alone. David’s notes sat on the desk, mocking her with their presence. She poured herself a glass of water and
flipped through them, half-resigned, half-curious. The first suggestion was simple: Start your day at Campo de'
Fiori. Get a coffee and just... be. The next morning, she followed the advice, walking through the cobblestone
streets as the city came to life. Vendors were setting up their stalls, the air filled with the scent of fresh bread
and flowers. Lena ordered an espresso at a small café on the edge of the square, the kind of place she might
have walked past if not for David’s note. As she sipped the rich, dark coffee, she imagined him beside her,
leaning back in his chair with that easy charm he used to carry, teasing her about always needing a to-do list,
even on vacation.
It hurt, the memories of him. But it wasn’t just the betrayal that stung—it was the shadow of the man she’d once
thought he was, the man who would have sat with her here, made her laugh, and marveled at the beauty of
Rome. By mid-morning, she found herself at the Colosseum. David’s note had been specific: Book early. Skip
the crowds. Stand in the arena and imagine the roar. She followed his advice, st epping into the vast
amphitheater as the sun rose higher in the sky. The scale of it was staggering, the history almost palpable. She
closed her eyes and tried to imagine the roar he’d described. But instead, she imagined his voice, standing
beside her, pointing out details, his hand brushing hers. She hated that he was in her head, even here. That
evening, she wandered through the cobbled streets of Trastevere, another suggestion from his notes: Go after
dark. Lanterns light up the alleys. It’s magic. He was right about that, too. The neighborhood was alive with
music and conversation, the golden glow of lamps reflecting off the stone walls. She chose a trattoria almost at
random and ordered pasta and a glass of wine, the notes untouched in her bag. For a moment, as the first bite of
cacio e p epe melted on her tongue, she felt joy. Pure, unfiltered joy. She looked around at the bustling tables,
the flicker of candles, and the laughter of strangers. This was hers, she reminded herself. This moment belonged
to her alone. Yet even as she told herself that, she imagined David sitting across from her, his smile soft, his
foot brushing hers under the table. The Trevi Fountain was next on his list: Toss a coin over your shoulder.
Make a wish. She did it, standing among the throng of tourists, but her wish was a quiet one, more like a plea.
For healing. For strength. For the ability to let go of the ghost of him that followed her through these streets. On
her last day, she found herself at the Vatican. She hadn’t planned to go—crowds weren’t her thing—but his
note had been oddly specific:
Look up. You’ll see God in the ceiling. Lena wasn’t sure she believed in God, but when she stood under
Michelangelo’s masterpiece in the Sistine Chapel, she felt something shift. Awe. Wonder. A fleeting reminder
that there was more to life than the pain she carried. That night, as she walked back to her hotel, the city
glowing under a de ep blue sky, she pulled his notes from her bag. She flipped through the pages, her fingers
grazing the words. These notes weren’t just for her trip— they were him trying to take care of her, even from a
distance. Trying to be the man he hadn’t been when it mattered most. Lena folded the papers and tucked them
back into her bag. She wouldn’t throw them away, not yet. But she wouldn’t rely on them anymore, either.
Rome had been a shared dream once, but now it was hers to claim. She walked past a quiet café, her reflection
catching in the glass. She didn’t look like the same woman who had boarded the plane days ago. She looked
lighter, more resolute. As she climbed the narrow stairs to her room, the thought struck her: maybe letting go
wasn’t about erasing someone. Maybe it was about making space for yourself, even in the shadow of what was
lost. And in Rome, at last, she felt like she was finding that space. One st ep at a time.