Chapter 4
Shockingly 6 months has passed in blur.
Months since I stepped off that place with shaking hands and a heart still bleeding from a bond that should’ve never been broken.
Months since I looked Ruben in the eyes and chose myself for the first time.
Months since I whispered goodbye to the girl I used to be, hoping Florence would give me the space to become someone new.
The city was everything the brochure had promised–sunlight dancing on cobblestone streets, narrow alleyways hiding cozy cafés and gelaterias, and a ever–present perfume of old books, roasted espresso, and blooming jasmine.
But while everything outside me felt warm and alive, I remained a silent, flickering shadow within.
People here knew me as the quiet girl. I rarely spoke unless I had to. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how especially there’s human and wolf around the university.
The language was foreign to my tongue, and even though I studied hard and practiced in front of the mirror, fear always wrapped around my throat the second I opened my mouth.
What if they laughed?
What if I said something wrong?
What if they saw me for what I truly was–just a broken girl pretending to be whole?
So, I kept my distance. I smiled when necessary, nodded a lot, and let my silence be my armor.
My classmates were kind, most of them, most of them was human, I am the only she–wolf in there, but kindness didn’t bridge the ocean of difference
between me and them.
While they went out for pizza and gelato, or wandered the city with laughter echoing between ancient stone walls, I worked late shifts at the university library–stacking books, scanning returns, shelving endless pages of human knowledge.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was peaceful.
Books didn’t expect conversation.
They didn’t ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
They let me be invisible, and for now, invisible felt safe.
I only stayed with Patricia and Louis for three weeks before moving into the university dorms. Not because I didn’t appreciate their warmth, but because I didn’t want to intrude.
They had already done more than enough–arranging my paperwork, helping me settle in, even filling my tiny fridge with fresh fruit and leftovers I pretended I didn’t cry over.
Still, Patricia visited often, always bringing pastries or thick soups that smelled like home–like love. Her gentle knock at my dorm door always brought a small smile to my lips.
“You’re too thin,” she’d say in that soft motherly tone. “You need to eat more.”
I’d nod. Promise her I would.
Then I’d return to my quiet room and sip her soup in silence, letting it warm the cold corners of me.
16:49 Sat, 12 Jul T GO.
Chapter 4
I painted when I could. Not as much as I wanted–between classes and work, time was scarce–but I always kept a sketchpad with me. I’d sit by the Armo River or in the shadow of the Duomo and draw whatever called to me–stray cats sunning on terracotta tiles, old women selling violets on the corner, couples kissing in the park.
And sometimes, I drew Mika.
Not how she used to be–radiant and proud–but how I remembered her in my dreams: curled up in the shadows of my heart, eyes dim, fur dulled with grief.
I missed her like I missed a part of my own soul. Because that’s what she was.
I tried to reach her. Every night. I’d close my eyes and whisper her name like a prayer. But she didn’t answer. Not yet.
Sometimes I wondered if she was gone forever.
Sometimes I wondered if I deserved that.
But then I’d remember Maria’s voice, soft and fierce all at once-“You need to get away from this, from the pack,”
So I kept going…
I woke up every morning and made my bed.
I went to class.
I showed up for my shifts, even when exhaustion clung to my bones.
I said “buongiorno” to the elderly librarian who reminded me of my old English teacher, and “grazie” to the barista who gave me extra biscotti when he thought I looked sad.
I didn’t smile often, but when I did, it was real.
And slowly–so slowly it almost hurt–I began to feel like I was still alive.
Not whole. But alive.
Sometimes I’d find myself watching the other students–laughing, flirting, shouting across campus in their easy Italian–and wonder if I’d ever be like them. Unburdened. Light. Free.
But freedom had a different meaning for me now.
It wasn’t dancing at midnight or falling in love in a foreign city.
It was waking up without the ache of being unloved.
It was taking deep breaths and realizing they didn’t burn.
It was knowing Ruben Black would never be mine–and finally, finally being okay with that.
He didn’t want me.
He never did.
And that was his choice.
But rising from the ashes of what he left behind? That was mine.
One afternoon, while restocking poetry books in the library, I stumbled across a worn copy of “The Prophet” by Khalil Gibran. I flipped it open and read a line that struck me like lightning:
10.49 Sat, 12
Chapter 4
་
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
I didn’t know if I was strong.
But I knew I had scars. And I knew I wasn’t ready to give up.
That night, I lit a candle on the small balcony outside my dorm window. I watched the flame dance against the twilight and whispered into the wind.
“I’m still here.”
It wasn’t much. But it was enough.
And I knew Mika heard me.
Maybe not ready to return, but listening.
I could feel her–like a distant heartbeat echoing beneath the surface.
Waiting… Like me.
So I gave her time. I gave myself time.
And with every sunrise over Florence, I chose to stay.
To heal. To live.
To paint the pieces of myself into something new.
I didn’t know what fate had planned for me. Whether love would find me again. Whether Mika would ever come back to me whole.
But I knew this: I wasn’t that trembling Nineteen–year–old girl anymore.
I was Ellaine Rollin.
And even if the world never called my name, I would write it in the stars myself.
Because I had survived the breaking.
And I was learning to become new me. The stronger version.
