Two weeks into my new life, and I’ve learned the art of pretending.
Pretending the schedule doesn’t suffocate me. Pretending the locked doors are normal. Pretending I’m not plotting escape routes during my Italian lessons or memorizing guard rotations during my supervised walks through the garden.
Pretending I’m not drowning.
Signora Russo has upgraded my pronunciation from “common” to “acceptable,” which I suppose is progress. Maria still won’t meet my eyes but leaves small things in my room. A book I mentioned wanting. An extra pastry at breakfast. Tiny gestures that remind me there’s humanity left in this house, even if it’s buried under fear.
Luca and I have settled into a routine that feels like a cold war. Breakfast together, mostly silent. Dinner together, occasionally punctuate
