Episode 14
1001 Words
The cobblestone streets of Florence glistened under the soft drizzle as Karla stood near the edge of the Arno River, her umbrella tucked away despite the rain. Her hair clung to her cheeks, wind lifting strands like petals in a breeze. She had never seen a city like this before—old and soulful, art etched into its architecture, music humming in the corners of alleys .
And strangely, for the first time in weeks, Karla wasn’t thinking of him .
She was thinking of herself .
The trip had begun with muted excitement. Her parents had filled the itinerary with museum visits, vineyard tours, and historical walks, trying to distract her from what they couldn’t name. Her brother cracked jokes and dragged her to gelato stalls, and her mother constantly asked her to take "just one more picture" for the family group chat.
But it wasn’t the itinerary that shifted something in her. It was the space. The *distance*.
In Rome, standing before ruins older than anything she’d imagined, Karla felt small—in the best way. The problems she’d obsessed over, the silence from Christopher, the ache of uncertainty—it all felt like it had happened to someone else.
It wasn’t that she forgot. But the grief no longer sat at the center of her chest. It had moved slightly to the side. And something else had taken its place.
Hope.
---
On the fourth day of their trip, in a small bookstore tucked into a Milan side street, Karla found a novel by a local author—a woman who had once been a med student but left practice to write. The story spoke of heartbreak, ambition, and rediscovering joy. Karla devoured it on the train ride back to the hotel.
That night, she sat by the window of their suite, eyes wide with wonder. A thought had been building in her ever since she arrived in Milan—and now it surged like a wave she could no longer ignore.
“Mama?” she asked, notebook in hand.
Her mother turned from the mirror. “Yes, honey ?”
Karla hesitated. “What if I told you I want to try something else too? Like… writing. On the side.”
Her mother raised a brow. “You write?”
“I used to. Before college. I loved it. I even found this team in Milan—an author collective. They’re open to international submissions and mentoring young writers. I want to apply. Just try. While waiting for internship placement.”
Her mother studied her carefully. “And medicine?”
“I still want to be a doctor. I worked hard for it. But maybe I don’t have to choose just one passion. Maybe I can be both.”
There was a long pause. Her father looked up from his newspaper.
“You want to live in Milan?” he asked, more curious than stern.
“Not yet. I’m just applying. But maybe… if they like my work, I could come back. Write part-time. Learn from them.”
Her mother smiled slowly. “Beta, I didn’t raise you to pick one road. I raised you to build your own. Apply. See where it leads.”
Karla beamed, tears prickling her eyes. “Really?”
Her mother nodded. “If something makes you feel alive again—don’t let it go.”
---
The next morning, Karla submitted her application to the Milan Author Collective. She attached a personal essay—half memoir, half fiction—about a girl falling for a man who wasn’t hers. About identity, desire, and the ache of being almost loved.
It felt raw. But honest.
She hit *submit* with a trembling hand.
---
Later that day, walking through the French Riviera with her camera slung across her shoulder, Karla checked her phone out of habit.
Christopher had posted a story—his usual dim lighting, open books, coffee mugs, and a caption:
> “PG exam grind. Sleep what’s that?”
She stared at it for a long time. Something about it felt so *him*. And yet, distant. Like watching a memory play in front of her instead of real life.
After a few hours of indecision, Karla opened his chat.
Typing slowly, carefully:
> *Hey. Just wanted to say… I cleared all my exams. Officially a doctor now.*
> *Hope your PG prep’s going well. Good luck—you’ll ace it. Take care.*
She read it thrice before hitting send.
And then waited.
It was nearly an hour later when the typing dots appeared. Her heart thudded.
Then his message arrived:
> *Congratulations, Dr. Karla. Proud of you. All the best for what’s next.*
> *Thanks for the wishes.*
That was it.
No teasing tone. No inside jokes. No “missed you,” or “how’s your trip?”
Just polite distance.
Karla stared at the screen. It felt like reading a message from a stranger.
She tucked her phone away and looked outside the train window. The French countryside sped past, golden and blurred. Her chest ached in a quiet, familiar way.
She had imagined telling him about her author dreams. About the application. About the bookstore in Milan that rekindled something in her.
But she didn’t.
Something in his tone had closed that door.
---
That night, in bed, Karla wrote in her journal.
> “He replied.
> But not the way he used to.
> And maybe that’s the sign I’ve been refusing to see.”
She closed the book and lay staring at the ceiling. Outside, the city lights glittered. A new life was calling her—a path where *she* came first. Not a man, not a maybeship. Not silence masked as care.
Karla didn’t know if she’d get into the author collective.
She didn’t know if Christopher would ever be honest about how he felt.
But for now, she knew this:
**She was more than someone’s almost .
.
.
.
.
.
.
- Writer
