372 to be exact. All sketches of him.
His face first appeared to Lila when she was sixteen. It was as though he had been hiding in the shadows of her mind, waiting for the perfect moment to step into her dreams.
She had just finished another one of her romcom binge sessions—How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Pretty Woman being her all-time favorite. The dream felt surreal, almost tangible, like if she reached out, she could brush her fingers against the planes of his sculpted face.
His figure was tall, medium-built, and impossibly graceful. His hair was tied back into a man bun, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. But it was his eyes, brown and hooded, with a gaze that pierced straight through her. That left the deepest mark.
In all her dreams, he never smiled. At least, not yet.
Years have passed since that first trance, and not a detail has changed. Her sketchbook is now a small shrine of him, pages filled with hundreds of his faces, attempts to capture his presence, his essence. She'd learned more about my art through him than she ever could have in any class. Some sketches were just his face; some, full figures. And last night, she tried something new: one of him and her together. Not her best work she'll admit, she'd rate it a 6 out of 10.
She tucked my sketchbook into her backpack and stepped onto the cobbled streets of Florence. Her gap year had officially begun, and she was determined to tick off the city from her bucket list. She had enforced her plans after her diagnosis. Cancer. Terminal. A cruel echo from her family's history.
She had spent the first year of college in oblivion while her body betrayed her in silence.
But now, armed with a sketchbook and a camera, she was determined to live.
The streets were alive with the scent of espresso and freshly baked bread. She paused at a small café, scanning the menu in Italian, murmuring the words to herself. "Un cappuccino… e un cornetto."
"Ah, you speak Italian?" a voice asked.
Startled, she turned to see a man in his late twenties, olive skin, dark hair falling just above his collar, with a crooked smile that suggested mischief.
"I—I know a little," she stammered, smiling awkwardly.
"You're brave to explore Florence on your own," he said, gesturing at the streets. "Most tourists get lost in two minutes and panic."
Lila laughed softly. "I'm… I'm good with maps." Not at alI true. I was terrible at directions, but I liked the idea of seeming composed.
"I'm Marco," he said, extending a hand. "Local guide, part-time historian, full-time troublemaker."
"Lila," she replied, shaking it. His grip was firm but casual, the kind that makes you wonder if someone had practiced it just for strangers.
"Where to, Lila? First time in Florence?" he asked, eyebrows quivering.
"Yes. I… I have a list. Places I want to see before… well, before my year ends," she said carefully, feeling the weight of the unsaid truth.
Marco's gaze softened, but he didn't press. "Bucket list, huh? That's brave. Many make but only a few see through with it."
They walked together through narrow streets lined with terracotta rooftops and vibrant flower boxes. Marco pointed out historic corners, whispered stories about forgotten artists, and occasionally teased her when she mispronounced a street name.
The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and comfortable silences.
"You're… very detailed," Marco said after a while, noticing the sketchbook peeking from her backpack.
Lila hesitated, then shrugged. "I draw a lot. People I see, things I interact with. It helps me make sense of things."
Marco smiled knowingly. "I get it. Figuring out one's mechanism of understanding. Makes life… more interesting."
Lila laughed quietly, feeling a strange comfort in sharing this with someone I'd just met. Most of her friends back home had drifted away after her diagnosis. People didn't know how to talk to someone who might not have the same number of years left.
They paused at Ponte Vecchio, the sun spilling gold across the Arno. Marco leaned on the railing, his reflection rippling in the water below.
"Lila," he said softly, almost as if testing the name on his tongue, "you don't strike me as the kind of person who does things half-heartedly. What's on this list of yours?"
She but her lip, hesitating. Should she tell him? Could she trust him not to recoil? She pictured her parents, her siblings… the weight of their worry, the heartbreak she tried so hard to hide.
"I… I'm just trying to see as much as I can," Lila said finally, vague enough to keep the truth safe. "Before… well, before I don't have the chance anymore."
His expression shifted, a mix of empathy and admiration. "That's admirable. Most people get scared and hide. You… you're choosing to live."
Something in her loosened. She let out a small laugh, shaky but real. "Admirable sounds nice. But some days, it just feels exhausting. Like I'm running a marathon I never signed up for."
"I get it," he said. "Life throws curveballs. The trick is not letting them make you give up. You're living your story now, Lila. Own it, even if it's messy."
Lila felt a warmth she hadn't known in months, a fleeting sense of normalcy. We talked until the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the river. Marco showed her hidden corners of the city: a tiny bakery where the pastries melted on your tongue, a quiet courtyard filled with statues no tourist had noticed. Every corner felt alive, every story felt like a secret shared between us.
As twilight descended, he glanced at her, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "You should draw some of this," he said, gesturing at the city. "Capture the feeling. Not just the sights."
"I might," Lila admitted, imagining her sketches blending reality with memory. "But some things… some people… are impossible to capture." Her thoughts wandered to the man from her dreams, the one who had haunted her nights for years. She imagined placing him next to her in the sketches, but he never fully emerged. Not yet.
Marco gave a soft laugh. "You're mysterious. I like that. Makes me want to know more."
Lila smiled faintly, unsure if he would ever know the half-truth behind her mystery—the illness, the sketches, the dreams. Some things were hers alone, untouchable even by the kindness of strangers.
As they parted that evening, he handed her a small card with his number. "For… emergencies. Or if you want a sight seeing partner."
She tucked it into my sketchbook, feeling the edges of a story unfolding—one she didn't yet fully understand. The city hummed around her, alive with possibility, and for the first time in months, she felt a flicker of hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, life could still be beautiful even in the shadow of the inevitable.