The first thing I hear in the morning is the slam of a cabinet downstairs. I roll onto my side, drag my pillow over my head, but it's no use.
"Luca!", his voice cuts through the walls.
I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my jaw already tense. The marble floor chills my bare feet. This house is cold in every way. Too white, too open, too quiet when it matters. Downstairs, my father's in a pressed shirt already, stirring his espresso like it personally offended him.
"You're late. Again."
I grab a banana from the bowl on the counter.
"It's 7:20. School starts at 8." He doesn't look up. "You have practice."
"Coach said it's optional."
"And so you'll opt to be average."
I don't reply. No point. I step out onto the street ten minutes later, my soccer bag slung over my shoulder. Rome is waking up. Sunlight bleeds across the rooftops, and the traffic's already thick with noise.
I meet Brando and Samu two blocks from school. They're messing around near the coffee bar, Brando flipping a coin between his fingers.
"Told you he'd be late", Brando says, grinning. I roll my eyes.
"You guys are lucky you're not smart enough to be in the same classes as me."
"We're lucky we don't have to share a classroom with her", Samu says. That gets my attention.
Chiara.
I don't say anything, just shrug like I don't care. We cross the street, the school looming ahead like a fortress made of beige bricks and glass. Inside, the halls are already buzzing—shoes squeaking on the floor, laughter echoing trough the lockers.
And then of course, there she is.
Bianchi.
She's walking with two books pressed to her chest and headphones in, ignoring the world. Her hair's pulled back in a braid that's already coming undone. Her gaze is focused, hard like a blade. People move aside for her without her asking. She's dressed simple—dark baggy jeans, the ones everyone wears right now, black sweater—but there's something about the way she moves. Like she's got a storm just under the surface and dares anyone to look close. She passes without a glance.
Good.
In English class, she sits one row ahead. I flick a pen cap at her desk. It hits the back of her chair. She turns slowly, eyebrows raised like she's bored
"You dropped your brain?" she says flatly.
"Just trying to check if your hair is bulletproof."
Her eyes narrow slightly. The corner of her mouth twitches like she wants to smile. Or punch me. Probably the second one. Maybe both. Then she turns back around. The teacher walks in. We both snap into place. But for the rest of the lesson, I can't stop thinking about how she didn't walk around me.
She walked through me.