Page 4 of My Italian Love Affair

I’mfinallygoing to be working on something that could lead to real opportunities.

And who knows? Maybe being in Rome will spark some much-needed inspiration for my fantasy novel, too.

I’ve been stuck in a creative rut for so long - mostly fuelled by the fact I’ve been spending my days writing about cheating reality stars while my own dreams gather dust - and this could be the perfect chance to turn things around.

There’s only one small problem:

How exactly does one pretend to care about football?

Chapter Two

Daphne

My suitcase is open, half-packed and sitting precariously on my bed as I toss in the last few items like a disorganised whirlwind.

I can already tell that no matter how much I cram into this thing, I’m going to forget something important.

So far, I’ve added an extra pair of heels (in the unlikely event I’m invited to a black-tie gala), another stack of notebooks and pens (because how else will I look professionally unprepared?), my charger (though I fully expect it to disappear halfway through my trip), and, naturally, my favourite bottle of dry shampoo.

You know, for those days when I inevitably don’t prioritise washing my hair and need to fake looking presentable.

A deep sigh escapes me as I zip up the hard-shell case, watching it bulge ominously under the pressure of all the clothes, mismatched shoes and half-hearted optimism I’m cramming into it.

It’s like playing Tetris with my sanity. One wrong move and this thing’s going to explode all over the floor, and I’ll be left standing in my underwear in the middle of my bedroom, wondering how I’ve managed to reach adult life without learning how to properly pack a case.

I take a step back and eye the suitcase like it’s a stubborn toddler.

“Don’t you dare,” I mutter under my breath, poking at the top with my finger to try and flatten it out. "I swear, if I have to sit on you, you’ll regret it."

I’ve been packing for hours - or at least it feels that way.

Between organising the correct number of socks(whodoesn’tneed 14 pairs for a three-month trip?),double-checking my toiletries bag for the hundredth time and mentally rehearsing how I’m going to pretend to be professional around a bunch of football players in Rome, I’m about ready to just throw it all out and call it a day.

But then I think about Italy.

Rome. The food. The wine.

Thesunshine.

A faint smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I mentally picture myself strolling through the cobbled streets with an espresso in hand, the backdrop of centuries-old ruins in the distance.

I can already taste the soft pasta, the crisp wine - and of course, sense the beautiful men lurking just around the corner, ready to distract me from my unending imposter syndrome.

“Okay, Daphne,” I say to myself, turning to look at my reflection and taking a deep breath. “You’ve got this. You’re going to Rome, not a press conference for toxic influencers. You’re aprofessional. Just... don’t get overwhelmed by the whole football thing. You’ll learn. Probably.”

Before I can continue with my highly motivated pep talk, my phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen. It's Priya.

Perfect. I need a distraction.

"Hey!" I answer, dropping the phone onto the bed and holding it at an awkward angle. "Just finishing up here, trying to decide if I can fit my entire life into one suitcase."

Priya’s face fills the screen.

“Are you seriously still packing? It’s the night before you leave!”” she laughs. “Have you considered leaving half of your wardrobe behind and just going full minimalist?”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. Although if I could figure out how to pack my entire life in one bag without suffocating under the weight of it, I would.” I sigh. "But that's not happening. So here I am - stuffing everything I can into thisthing."

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