Once the last box was delivered, I left before my composure cracked. I waited outside for the car, but Lorenzo and Francesca still hadn’t come down. Out of courtesy—for what we used to be—I sent him a short message.
Are you coming back?
The response came almost immediately, but not in text form. A voice message.
When I pressed play, Francesca’s voice filled the air, gentle and carefully sweet.
“Sofia, Lorenzo’s helping me fix some wiring problems here. The apartment’s been empty for a while, so there’s a lot to sort out. You should head off first—no need to wait.”
I stared at the screen for several seconds before closing it. The familiar ache surfaced in my chest, sharp and unwelcome, but I forced it down before it could grow teeth.
As I slid into the backseat, another message came through.
“I hope you don’t get the wrong idea,” she added softly. “Lorenzo’s just helping because he feels responsible. Being alone in a new city can be… overwhelming.”
The meaning was unmistakable. She leaned on him. And he never refused her.
My phone rang again almost immediately. Lorenzo’s name lit up the screen. I answered, and his irritation spilled out at once.