Page 11 of My Italian Love Affair

“Got it,” I say, mentally penciling in‘panic about football’somewhere in my schedule before then.

He steps back, giving me one last knowing look.

“Hope you brought comfortable shoes, Sinclair. You’re about to get thrown in the deep end.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving me standing in the doorway with a mixture of excitement and impending doom bubbling inside me.

I step back and close the door behind me, exhaling slowly.

Tomorrow, I’ll be at my first press event, trying to convince everyone - including myself - that I belong there.

No big deal.

I glance back out at the Rome skyline, at the golden sunlight spilling over the rooftops, and my shoulders sag as I let out a long breath.

No big deal at all.

Chapter Five

Daphne

By the time I finish unpacking, the sun has shifted lower in the sky, casting a golden glow through the window and bathing the room in soft amber light.

My suitcase now sits empty in the corner of my bedroom, looking oddly deflated. My clothes are neatly folded into the tiny wooden wardrobe that creaks slightly every time I open it as if protesting the weight of my impulsive overpacking.

Meanwhile, my work laptop is now out of my cabin bag and sits dead centre on the oak desk, looking both important and slightly judgmental.

Beside it, my notebooks are stacked in a satisfyingly organised and colour-coded pile. Some are for work, while others are for my own chaotic ideas - a few of which are already half-filled with the scribbles of thoughts that might one day become something worthwhile.

And, most importantly, my emergency stash of chocolate that I brought with me from London has taken up residence in the top drawer.

Priorities.

Being unpacked is a small victory, but it’s a victory nonetheless. My first tiny step towards making this place feellike mine - even if only for the next three months.

At the very least, I’ve carved out a little sense of order in the chaos of this massive career upheaval, and now, there’s only one thing left to do.

Go outside.

*

This city hums around me in a way that London never quite does.

London is loud - deafening, even - but it’s a different kind of noise.

It’s the sound of hurried footsteps pounding against pavements, of aggressive keyboard clacking in overfilled coffee shops, of taxis honking at pedestrians who dare to hesitate for even a second at a crossing.

It’s packed trains and sighing commuters, people glued to their phones as they rush from one place to the next, convinced that whatever they’re doing is of the utmost importance.

London is efficient, relentless, and always in a hurry.

Even in the evenings when the city supposedly relaxes, the energy remains the same - just with an added layer of alcohol. Bars and pubs overflow with office workers still in their stiff suits and pencil skirts, their ties loosened and heels kicked off under high tables as they spill onto the pavement with pints in hand. There’s laughter, sure, but it’s tinged with the kind of exhaustion that comes from surviving another workday.

People drink to decompress, to shake off the stress before they do it all again tomorrow. It’s socialising with an unspoken undercurrent of obligation.

But Rome?

Romebreathes.

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