It made me wonder if we owe our parents that kind of simple, unfiltered happiness for the rest of our lives. Why couldn’t they find our hiccups now as cute as they were back then? Who had changed—them or me?

Throughout the night, Jahan would stop and stare at the projector screen, too. He was lost in the nostalgia. I hardly existed to him that night. It was like this summer had never happened. We were like strangers at the bar. The party continued, and I overheard him from just a few feet away talking about how relieved he was to be done with algebra.

“It was like the one thing I’ve wanted most my entire life,” he said, “hinged on the one thing I’m not good at.”

A group of Italians stood chatting and laughing at the end of the bar, next to a broken mirror; I recognized one of them, a girl with punk-rocker hair, as a friend of Rocco’s. There were two other girls next to me whispering in Italian. I found Neil and hung out with him for a while.

“Giovanni and Rocco never came,” Neil said to me.

I nodded, my gaze focused on Jahan. He was waving his hands wildly and pedaling his feet. “Probably for the best,” I muttered.

The people around Jahan burst into laughter.

I stayed all the way until the end of the party. Even though I lived in Testaccio, I walked back to Trastevere alongside Jahan and one of his friends, someone whose name I don’t remember. It was five in the morning. They were yelling Italian curse words loudly through the streets as we crossed the bridge over the Tiber. It was a long walk, and I was mostly silent. As much as I wanted closure, I couldn’t bear to bring up my problems, not on Jahan’s last night here in Rome.

We said goodbye at a small intersection in Trastevere. It was unspectacular. Plain. Like saying goodbye at the end of another day. There was nothing about staying in touch, nothing about our time together in Rome and everything I had learned from him. Jahan left Rome, our Rome, much like I had left my family.

Interrogation Room 38

Roya Azadi

I DON’T MEAN to be rude, but I have to wonder why this is taking so long.

You’re saying Amir won’t stop talking? If you could kindly tell him that he can talk to us, I would appreciate that.

May I ask why you just laughed? No, I believe that was a laugh. I hope I am not being disrespectful, it’s just I believe when I told you that Amir could talk to us, you laughed. Soraya, please. It’s all right. I can handle this.

Officer, I see the way you look at me: at my clothes, my skin, my accent. You think that I wouldn’t understand my son. Because of my culture, you make certain assumptions about my beliefs. And I won’t lie—it was difficult, learning that Amir was gay. It has not been an easy road. For me or for my husband. But we are trying our best to understand.