The confessions of a fake fiancée

I’m finally in Italy, away from my family and away from Ben. Tears blur my vision as I drag my luggage across the airport floor, the wheels rattling against the tiles like they’re protesting the move as much as I am. I don’t know how I’m going to cope without them. I miss them so much it hurts like someone scooped a chunk out of my chest and forgot to stitch it back. I thought the air would smell different, like in the movies where divas step off a plane, sniff dramatically, and smile like they’ve just inhaled the purest coke ever. But there’s no difference. Maybe I have a bad nose. The scenery in the airport is definitely different, though calmer, more luxurious than the chaos back home. Even the announcements sound gentler, like they’ve been trained to soothe you into spending money. Well, Italy is my new home now. I might as well start getting used to calling it that. But if Italy is my new home, what does that make France? A past life? A country I visit in my dreams? My first time on a plane was surreal. I didn’t sit where the rich sit. This ticket alone cost an arm and a leg, but it was still worth it. The food wasn’t as good as people claim, or maybe it’s just this airline. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it didn’t stand out. I bet I could cook better. I guess that’s what comes with this cheap-ass airline I still couldn’t afford, lmao. Even the dessert was suspiciously shiny, like it had been plastic-wrapped since 1999. I’m glad I sat by the window, though. You’d be surprised how tiny people look from up here just moving dots in a world that suddenly feels too big and too small at the same time. I need to make enough money, so my kids won’t have to wait until they’re twenty-two to fly on a plane. And then, imagine this, I caught two people my age having s*x in the bathroom. Why is everyone just so horny? Is that how Italy is going to be? That reminds me. Ben and I eventually had s*x yesterday. It was painful at first, but then I think I enjoyed it. I can’t lie, I faked an orgasm at first, but I think I actually had one later. There’s just something he did with his tongue that I really liked. I guess that’s over now. Ben is a thousand miles away, and I won’t be having any of that kind of fun here in Italy unless I suddenly develop a fetish for awkward roommate encounters. I’m happy I got accepted into this university, but sad about leaving everyone behind in France. My roomies are all rich and boujee. Do I really fit here? One of them literally has a Porsche. That money could set my family up for life. I might as well steal the keys and sell them. Apparently, her dad is a mayor and a rich business executive. She probably thinks “struggling” means waiting more than two days for an sss delivery. “Who put this rag in the bathroom?” a voice shouts suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts. The room falls silent. Then come the sneers and snickers. I lean over from my bunk bed to see Melinda, a tall, white blonde with icy blue eyes, holding my orange towel with an expression of pure disgust. “It’s my towel, Melinda,” I say, my cheeks burning. “Oh,” she tilts her head, “it looked like a rag to me. You should get a new towel. My dogs use better towels than this.” Under my breath, I mutter, “If I had the f*****g money, I would.” Obviously, my towel isn’t the best quality, but it’s not a rag. I guess this is the beginning of the torment. Why do rich people have to be such assholes? Like okay, we get it, your parents are extremely wealthy, and you’re set for life. But does that mean you have to be mean to the rest of the world? With tears sliding down my cheeks, I shove my diary aside and grab my phone to text Ben. Ben: I know you’ll be tired when you land in Italy. Rest well and call me when you can. Love, Ben. Now I miss him even more. My face grows hotter, my tears faster. There’s no one here to fight for me. No one cares. God, it’s a horrible feeling like I’m already halfway erased from the life I knew. My first night in Italy wasn’t what I expected. I cried myself to sleep and barely slept at all. In the middle of the night, I woke up to go through some interview questions. I have an interview on Monday at Acorns Press. They’re one of the biggest publishing companies in Italy. I need to get in. The stipend I get from my scholarship is barely enough to cover my food, and I can’t call home for money. It still baffles me that, in this day and age, sanitary pads aren’t free. My stipend barely covers my feeding, let alone toiletries. My roommates are still sleeping at 10 a.m. I guess that’s how the rich live, luxury and late mornings. The room? Well, it’s more like an apartment, spacious and cozy. In France, it would cost thousands of euros. The floors are actual terrazzo, not the fake tiles we had back in Lyon. The walls are painted lavender, probably because Noemi chose it. It’s her favourite colour and a huge chandelier hangs in the living room like we’re in a presidential suite. My bed is near the window, so I wake up to the sight of the courtyard every day. There’s a luxurious fountain outside the dorm, its water sparkling like it’s auditioning for a perfume commercial. I don’t know which shocks me more, the chandelier or the fountain. We each have our own closet space. Mine is barely full. My entire wardrobe could fit into two carry-on suitcases. Meanwhile, Noemi’s closet looks like a Dior boutique exploded. She even has a section just for glasses, and those glasses definitely cost more than all my clothes combined. I have today and tomorrow to pick what to wear for the interview. Whatever I decide, I’ll have to make it work. For now, I need a bath and some fresh air. I’m already here. I might as well hope for the best. “Fire!” a girl screams, bolting out of the kitchen.