The late afternoon sun hung low over the rooftop pool, casting a molten gold sheen across the water that did little to warm the chill seeping into Luna’s bones. She perched on the edge, legs submerged to the calves, the chlorine stinging her skin like a faint echo of old wounds sharp, persistent, impossible to ignore. Her phone balanced precariously on her thigh, screen glowing with a cruelty she hadn’t anticipated. Three years. Three goddamn years of exile in Milan’s glittering cage, building walls out of gallery openings and hollow flings, pretending the ache had dulled.
Three years gone.
Three fucking years.
Facebook had been a lapse. A momentary weakness after too much wine and not enough sleep.
But there it was, staring back at her like a ghost in pastel disguise.
A job post. From Fancy Ice Cream.
The name twisted in her gut , Dario’s old haunt, the gelateria where they’d collided and combusted. She’d fled it, fled him, after that rain-soaked night when his rejection had carved her open: Too much, Luna. We’re too much. His voice, gravel-rough even then, echoing in her skull like a bruise that never faded.
She scrolled, breath shallow. The shop had transformed—no more the dim, moody nook with its cracked tiles and brooding corners. Now? A riot of color: walls splashed in bubblegum pink and electric blue, cartoon scoops grinning from the logo, fairy lights dangling like false promises of joy. “Hiring part-time scoop stars! Bring your sparkle to our vibrant new vibe! 🍦✨
Sparkle. Vibe. The words mocked her, saccharine and hollow, a candy-coated lie over the rot beneath.
Her thumb hovered, trembling. Is he still there? Dario. The name burned unspoken, a forbidden incantation. She pictured him behind that garish counter—tall, dark-eyed, his hands still callused from endless scooping, his gaze capable of unraveling her with a single, unreadable glance. The man who’d claimed her body in the back room after closing, whispering filthy commands that made her beg, only to shatter her heart with cold distance come morning.
Don’t. But her pulse thrummed, traitorous and alive, heat pooling low despite the water’s cool lap against her skin. Nostalgia twisted with something darker—resentment, longing, the psychological pull of unfinished ruin. She’d come back to this coastal town for closure, for family obligations she couldn’t escape forever. Not for him. Never for him.
Yet her fingers moved on their own, typing before doubt could intervene.
“Still room for someone who melts under pressure?”
She hit post, the digital whoosh a dare hurled into the void. The pool water rippled around her legs, indifferent, as the city below hummed with oblivious life. Her reflection stared back from the screen eyes shadowed, lips parted in a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Welcome home, Luna. The past was waiting, dripping in neon joy, ready to devour her whole.
