It’s the fifth night in this sprawling Italianate mansion, a place that should feel like a dream but instead hums with a silent, unsettling energy.
And for the third night in a row, the space beside me in the enormous, ridiculously soft bed remains empty.
Lior slips out after I pretend to drift off, a phantom limb of his presence lingering in the cool night air, only to vanish with the first hint of dawn.
The flimsy excuse of still being “a little upset” about the beach incident feels increasingly hollow.
We spend our days together – exploring picturesque coastal towns, indulging in decadent meals, even attempting teaching me Italian by making me engage in clumsy conversations with patient locals.
Fun, isn't it?
Maybe, but there's that cold rift that k constantly gets from him. H
