Not Looking, Still Finding
1153 Words
Camilla woke to the sound of church bells and seagulls.
The small flat she’d rented was perched just above a bakery, and the scent of warm bread was already seeping in through the open shutters. She lay still for a moment, tangled in linen sheets, staring at the shadows the morning light cast on the ceiling. It had been a long time since she’d woken up feeling anything close to calm.
Not happy. Not healed. Just… still.
Matteo’s café had followed her into her dreams. She could still hear the jazz, feel the heat of his gaze across the table, taste the ricotta tortelloni like it had been something holy. She wasn’t used to remembering evenings so vividly. Especially not ones that involved men.
She sat up, brushing a curl from her forehead. No messages. No calls. Her phone was blissfully silent. The world wasn’t asking anything of her yet.
She liked it that way.
Still in her sleep shirt, she padded barefoot to the kitchen nook and made herself a cup of dark, bitter coffee. No milk. No sugar. Just a ritual to make her feel alive. Her camera sat on the table, lens cap off, already calling her name.
She hadn’t looked at the shots from yesterday. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. Not yet. The pictures she took when she wasn’t trying often told her more than the ones she’d composed.
Cam sipped her coffee and opened the laptop. Imported the files. The images flickered across the screen — couples, cats, crumbling walls, salt-worn paint.
And then, there he was.
Matteo.
He hadn’t posed for her. She hadn’t aimed her lens with intent. But somehow, there he was in the frame, backlit by late sunlight, towel thrown over one shoulder, head bowed in laughter as he polished a wine glass. One of the curtains had caught the wind and was flying beside him like a flag.
The shot was… beautiful.
And intimate. Too intimate.
She stared at it, pulse quickening.
She should delete it.
She didn’t.
Instead, she closed the laptop, grabbed her camera, and left before she could think about what it meant.
Marina’s was closed when she arrived. The shutters were drawn, and a small handwritten sign hung in the window:
“Back at 2.”
It wasn’t even ten yet.
She stood there for a moment, strangely disappointed. Then annoyed at herself for feeling disappointed.
It was too early to miss someone you’d only just met.
Cam turned and walked, letting the narrow streets absorb her. Vernazza wasn’t big, but it felt like it held endless corners. The kind of place where the scenery changed not with space, but with time. Same alley. Different hour. Entirely different light.
She found a small overlook she hadn’t noticed before — a hidden terrace above the main square, framed by crumbling stone. The view stretched wide: sea, rooftops, laundry lines, and people drifting like slow-moving ink across cobblestones.
She raised the camera and clicked.
And clicked again.
And again.
It wasn’t work. It was breath. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like she was trying to capture anything. She was just witnessing it.
Below her, a couple argued gently in Italian. A child laughed from a balcony. Somewhere, bells rang again. They didn’t sound like calls to prayer. They sounded like reminders: You’re here. You’re alive. Keep going.
Cam sat down on the warm stone ledge and let her feet dangle. The sea was glittering, restless. She could stay here a while.
And she might have — if not for the voice behind her.
“I thought you were avoiding me.”
She turned.
Matteo stood in the entryway to the terrace, hands in his pockets, curls wind-tousled and eyes shadowed by sun. He wore a navy blue shirt today, sleeves rolled as always, and the top two buttons undone. There was a freshness to him, like he’d been walking for a while with no destination.
Cam blinked. “How did you—”
“You weren’t at the café.”
“I didn’t know I had a schedule.”
He grinned. “You don’t. But it’s a small town.”
Cam raised a brow. “You tracked me down?”
“I walked past here and saw someone stealing my view.”
She turned away to hide the smile. “I was just taking photos.”
“I know.”
He walked over and stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. The air between them buzzed with unspoken things.
“What did you see?” he asked.
She tilted her camera toward him and flipped through a few images — sea, rooftops, the arguing couple.
“Life,” she said softly. “Unfiltered.”
Matteo nodded. “That’s rare. Most people come here looking for a postcard.”
Cam turned to him. “And what do you think I came looking for?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I think you didn’t come looking for anything. And that’s how you found something.”
She looked at him, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest.
“Did you know I took a photo of you yesterday?” she asked.
His lips quirked. “No. But I hoped you would.”
She hesitated. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“It was a good photo.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I’m not showing it to anyone.”
Matteo looked at her then — fully, squarely, like someone who didn’t flinch from being seen. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not mine to show.”
The silence that followed was thick and golden.
Then he said, “You’re not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
“A tourist. A little lost. A little lonely.”
She smirked. “I am.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re hiding. That’s different.”
Camilla’s breath caught.
He wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t cruel, either. His voice was soft, like he was naming a thing to set it free.
“I could say the same about you,” she said.
Matteo looked out at the sea. “You’d be right.”
A breeze swept over them, cool and clean. A moment passed where neither of them said anything. Just breathing. Just existing in the same fragile bubble.
Then Matteo said, “Come back at two. I’ll teach you how to make trofie al pesto.”
She blinked. “You’re going to teach me to cook?”
“Yes. So when you run away again, you’ll take something with you.”
Cam hesitated. “And what if I don’t run?”
Matteo looked at her then, slow and quiet and full of some kind of gravity.
“Then stay long enough to see what else you can find.”
- Writer
