Never Meet

Rome

Rome hit her likea different world. Warm air, golden light, the faint scent of espresso

and stone. Cobblestone streets echoed

under her boots as she made her way to the restaurant in the photograph. The table. The same angle. The chair

where he had sat. It all felt like a revelation,

sacred and alive. But the table was empty.

She lingered. Ordered a coffee. Watched

the shadows. Her heart ached, the kind of

ache that only desire mixed with doubt can

create.

A waiter noticed her staring.

"He used to sit there," he said quietly,

polishing a glass. "A regular. Then he.

stopped coming. Months ago. Wasn't

alone. Someone else left with him. After an

accident, I think."

The words fell heavy. Drea's pulse

accelerated-not with relief, but with a

shiver of foreboding. Rome suddenly felt smaller, tighter, suffocating. Every step she took seemed

to echo the distance between what she

imagined and what was real.

She wandered the streets, tracing every

post she had seen online, every shadow he

had ever cast. But with each turn, each

familiar street, she felt the gap widen: he

was out there, somewhere, yet slipping

further from her grasp.

And the thought that had haunted her

nights in London now screamed in the

bright Roman day: she was chasing

someone who might not want to be found-

or worse, someone who might not exist at

all.