Roma, Ti Amo
The air in Rome was thick with summer, with the scent of blooming jasmine and baked stone lingering in the evenings. Emma stepped off the tram, sketchbook in hand, her satchel bouncing at her side. Her heart fluttered—not with fear this time, but with exhilaration.
It had been three weeks since she arrived, and the city was already shaping her.
The old cobblestone streets, the echoes of languages she barely understood, the golden light that painted everything in hues of history and art—it was all a kind of magic she hadn't expected. Each corner she turned felt like a secret unraveling, each piazza an open canvas.
Yet even as she adjusted, one name still lingered in her thoughts like a soft hum.
Sam.
Letters Between Cities
They didn't FaceTime often—Emma had warned him early that the time difference and her workload would make video calls a rarity. But they had agreed on something better. Something older.
Letters.
Real ones. Handwritten, sealed, and mailed across the sea.
She received the first one in her studio mailbox a few days after settling in:
"Ems,
I don't know if I miss you or if I just feel like my days are made of silence now. But I think you took the color with you.
There's a new barista at the café. She spells my name with a 'C'. I don't correct her.
I keep finding things I want to show you. The sky looked like spilled peach juice yesterday. You would've painted it.
Come back when you're ready.
But don't rush.
Make Rome yours first.
—Sam"
She cried in her studio reading it.
Not from sadness—but because she finally understood what it meant to be loved without possession.
The Art of Letting In
Emma's days were full.
Workshops in Renaissance buildings. Long lunches with other artists-in-residence. Sketches in Trastevere. Watercolor afternoons on the Spanish Steps. She found herself slowly learning the city's rhythm, letting it shape her days like clay.
She met Chiara, a sculptor from Naples, and Luca, a photographer from Venice. They became her fast friends—eccentric, hilarious, honest. With them, she laughed more freely, danced barefoot by the river, and even allowed herself to forget about the ticking clock of her return.
"I've never seen someone paint with so much ache," Chiara said one evening, watching Emma finish a piece titled Departure.
Emma looked at the canvas, then nodded. "It's not ache anymore. It's remembering."
The Memory Walk
One evening, near twilight, Emma wandered down Via Dei Coronari alone. She stopped at a tiny gelato shop Sam had once told her about in passing, from an article he'd read.
She ordered pistachio and lemon—his favorite and hers.
As she sat on the fountain's edge, she pulled out her sketchbook and drew.
Not a building. Not a statue.
Him.
Soft curls. Kind eyes. The slight curve of his smile.
And across the page, she wrote:
"I love you like Rome—loud, quiet, ancient, new. Full of things I haven't even discovered yet."
Sam's Turn
Back home, Sam was working two part-time jobs while prepping for a small film competition. But each night, he sat at his desk and wrote.
"Ems,
I walked through the park today. You know that spot near the sculpture garden? Someone was painting in your exact style. For a second, I thought it was you. My heart skipped.
You've ruined me for ordinary things. But in the best way.
Every time I create something, I ask myself: Would Emma feel this?
And that's how I know I'm still growing.
Come home when it's time. I'll be here.
—S."
The Ending of Summer
Emma's final week in Rome arrived too soon. Her work was selected for the closing exhibit of the residency—a massive honor. The piece she submitted, Between, depicted a faceless girl standing on a bridge between two cities, one bright with sunlight, the other lit by stars.
On the wall beside it, she included a quote:
"There are some loves that don't ask to be held. They just ask to be felt—completely."
The gallery was silent that night when she stepped away from her painting. And yet, inside, her heart felt full of music.
Later, after the closing dinner, she returned to her tiny apartment and began packing.
She placed her sketchbooks carefully in the center of the suitcase.
And on top, one final letter to Sam.
"Sam,
I'm coming home.
And this time, not because I need to find myself.
But because I finally have.
—Emma."