I live on the fifth floor of this rust-coloured apartment building in the middle of Rome. From my window, I can see old stone walls and the messy beauty of this city—cars honking, vespas racing past, people yelling in the street like it's music. At night, I sit there with my sketchpad, drawing whatever catches my eye. It's the only time I feel like I'm somewhere else.
At school, I keep it together. Perfect grades. Perfect smile. Perfect answers. I have to. One wrong mark on a test and my father starts yelling. If he's drunk, it's worse. So I don't mess up. Ever.
I barely have time for friends. Soccer, guitar, drawing—that's where I breathe. I draw on the back of my notebooks, in the corners of class handouts. A few kids have noticed. They whisper about it. I ignore them. Just like i ignore the scarsthat never quite fade in time.
And then there's him.
Luca Moretti.
He's everything I'm not. Loud. Confident. Everyone at school knows his name. He gets good grades, but acts like it's no big deal. Teachers like him. Girls too. He walks the hallways like he's on a runway.
The first time we really talked, we were arguing about Dante in Literature class. I had all my quotes and arguments lined up. He just talked like he was on stage. Wild. Unpredictable.
"You think too much like the books. Try thinking like a person", he said, smirking. God that stupid smirk.
I wanted to throw my copy of Inferno at his head.
Since then, it's been war.
Every class, every assignment, every group project—somehow it turns into a competition. He'll crack a joke right before I present, just loud enough to make the class laugh and throw me off. I shoot back with corrections when he messes up a date or forgets a name in history. It's petty. It's exhausting. It's constant.
We've never actually had a real conversation outside of class. But he's everywhere. In the hallway. He practices at the same time as me, but with the boys' soccer team. I play with the girls. And always, always with that same look in his eyes.
Like he knows something I don't.
He walks into the room like he owns it. But I'm not scared of him. Not like I'm scared of other things. Something I catch him staring at me. Not the smug kind of stare. The quiet kind. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle. I pretend not to notice.
I pretend a lot of things.
And every day, I hate him a little more for how he sees through me.