the final days by the sea

let yourself fall

My angelic friends. My angels. Friends. Friends who are angels disguised as strangers.

I have exactly one more week by the sea, by the water. In this tiny town with its perfect pastel coloured houses. The perfect proximity to the sparkly sea. The town within a region famous for its pesto, for its basil, for its white wine. The lush green hills, the church bells, the nonni who gather in the piazza. The stars on a perfectly clear night, and the town with a sunset and sunrise that always makes me feel something.

I had a hard time leaving Rome. Finally, after two late winters, two springs and two summers - I felt it. I felt like I had carved out my community. My favourite bakery that infamously employed both my one nightmare date of 2023 and one of my favourite friends - the Girl With the Bodycon Dress:

“Emily, I have to tell you something.”

She sits down across from me.

I lift up my sunglasses. It sounds serious.

“When you told me that you went on a date with *nightmare man*. I already knew. We had been hooking up for 3 months, too. And he told me that you both went out. And then he saw us becoming friends, and I think he started to panic.”

(Do you remember the guy who, after making out with me, then proceeds to tell me has a girlfriend in France, and that he only loved her because she loved sports? That one.)

I scream. I drop my sunglasses on the floor. And we both scream at my sunglasses that dropped on the floor. Then, we burst out laughing. There’s nothing like a shared hook-up that will instantly bond two girls forever.

I’d walk to the organic market where I’d pick up the same 3 tomatoes everyday to go with my baguette from said bakery. The woman owns the shop with her boyfriend, and they are both two of the loveliest people I met in Rome.

“This is the first time I’ve felt…tranquila.” She tells me when I ask her about her relationship with her him.

I show her pictures of the seaside town that I’m planning on moving to for a month. “CHE BELLA! GO! You deserve it.” She gives me a hug and kisses me on both cheeks. I feel a pang in my chest.

I deserve it. I tell myself, I deserve it.

-

“Do you smoke?” He asks me as I open up the kitchen window.

“No. Should I?” His face is inches from mine. I want to tell him that I’m obsessed with my skin, but don’t want to him to think I’m shaming the creases on his forehead and that deep furrow, right in between his brows.

He smiles. “It’s a personal preference.”

My heart is racing. I turn my back to him and fill two glasses of amaro instead.

It’s 2022. I am 28 years old. It is my third week in Rome.

“Let me know when I can come see you today. Anytime between 12 pm and 4 pm.” A message from him reads.

“He introduced himself as a father and a musician to me last night.” I text my best friend. “No mention of a girlfriend. No mention of a wife. But I think we’re in trouble.”

“Ok. 2 pm.”

“Roger.”

I sit down on the couch. Black bodysuit, black jeans. I grab the throw beside me and drape it across my lap. It isn’t cold, but I need something.

But even with the windows open, I can’t escape the smell of his cigarette. I watch as the sun hits the smoke that starts to circle around him. It floats for a while and then lands, sinking into every thread of his black tshirt.

I’ll still smell like him for days after.

“My brother. My friends. So many people in this industry. People think I’m selfish, but they don’t understand. They don’t understand people like us, Emily. Loss changes you. And the way you see the world. So, I tell myself, I deserve it. I deserve it.”

-

In this small town by the sea, I wake up with the sun. The swirling pinks, the hazy oranges. They envelope the clouds. I’ve never seen a sky like this.

6:30 AM. I glance at my phone on my nightstand.

I’ll close my eyes for a just a little while longer. My room is quiet, and my mind, quieter. But I know the church bells will go off soon. I’ll hear the opening of the bar and the market doors in the distance.

I take my time getting out of bed. We have so much time.

The hardwood floors are cold against my bare feet. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair falls past my shoulders. The sea breeze has made it soft. Waves of blonde, chestnut, and caramel have gone lighter from the sun. I find my trusty jade roller, and start massaging the space right in between my eyebrows.

“Be careful moving that area.” My mom points to my forehead. “I don’t want to pass down my furrowed brow to you. I think it’s genetic.” We both start to laugh.

I deserve it, I tell myself. I deserve it.

-

“Are you married?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m not married.” He doesn’t strike me as the type to believe in binding commitments, anyway. The way he sees the world.

He comes to sit down next to me.

“So. Girlfriend?”

He leans forward. I watch as his right foot starts to tap the floor. His knee moves up and down, up and down. His gaze is now fixed on the doorway.

“Yes. We’ve been together for four years.”

I want to ask him if she knows he’s here, but something tells me not to.

“And are you happy?”

He waits a while before answering.

“She was with someone else for a long time. And I waited. I waited for her to finish what she had with him. And now…” He trails off.

-

In this small town, I let the sea hold me. At noon, when the sun is at its brightest, I set my blanket down beside the nonni, the couples, the families, and the daily beachgoers.

I take out 2 peaches, a book, a bottle of water. I pull the straps down of my dress and watch it as it slips down towards the sand. I slide out of my sandals, and walk a few steps forward. The water is warm, the water is salty.

The sea holds me while I let myself fall.

-

He presses his forehead against mine.

I want to tell him everything.

But I have lost control over my thoughts, my words, my actions, all rationality, and all logic.

My body has a mind of its own.

I place my right hand on his cheek.

“Jesus.” He shakes his head and whispers.

Fall. I feel a voice. I don’t know where it is coming from. But I feel it.

Let yourself fall.

-

In this small town, I walk to the bar where my favourite Nonna works each and every morning.

“Emilia! It’s 11:00. It’s late for your cappuccino. Did you sleep in?”

I laugh. “The weather, the rain - it makes me sleepy.”

“Well. I’m not making you a cappuccino.”

She takes out a bottle of white wine and pours me a glass.

I am not one to argue with any nonna.

“Do you like pizza?”

“Lu, of course I like pizza.”

I sit outside. She brings me the glass of wine and two small pieces of pizza rossa.

“Oh, Emilia. You’re a beautiful person.” She takes my head into her hands and kisses me on both cheeks.

She goes inside and I start to cry.

-

“And I fought it.” I tell my spiritual friend. “I fought it for so long. Because I knew how it was going to end.”

“Listen, I’ve never believed that we actually have a say in who we fall for.” She tells me.

Falling in love. Grieving. Dying. Falling out of love. Things that are out of our control. Things that are out of our hands. Things we cannot change.

Falling. Falling, falling, falling.

“And sometimes that love, Emily, it comes around, and then …it shoots back up into the sky. Back into the stars. And it lives all around us in the ether.”

-

“You wrote something the other day. New endings to old stories.”

I don’t think a man has ever quoted my own Instagram captions to me before.

“It’s almost like … when you have a memory that once was sad. An anniversary of someone’s death. A heartbreak. Something that once hurt you. I like to figure out new ways that I can remember it.”

I don’t like forgetting things that made me sad. Pain is a reminder of love.

He raises his eyebrows and nods. “Ah.”

“I didn’t realize you were reading what I write.”

“Well, it’s because I can’t really read you.”

TBC.

-