On the plus side, my Instagram game is absolute fire. My balconies make for killer backdrops and I buy antique trinkets and fresh flowers from a nearby market for staging. I even took a thirty-minute train ride outside of Rome to Tivoli so I could visit Villa d’Este, a 16th-century villa that’s open to the public. It has show-stopping gardens and fairy-tale-caliber fountains and thank goodness I brought three books with me that day. I shot each of them in locations more idyllic than the next and my posts have been blowing up.

Sightseeing is a welcome distraction and the highlight of my days. With my handy-dandy Italian Metro card, I pick a destination almost every afternoon and hop on the Metro after lunch. So far, I’ve been to the Coliseum, the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain twice.

I can’t get enough of that freaking fountain. I could sit there and stare at it for hours. The best is seeing it at night, all lit up with the smell of the running, splashing water flowing through the air. It’s swoon-worthy—that’s the only term that captures it.

I’m contemplating where I’ll visit today as I sit on my favorite bench near the back of my apartment complex’s cobblestoned courtyard. I may or may not be eating pizza marinara for breakfast—which is cheese-less pizza—but that’s beside the point.

The city is fully awake with the early morning commute dying down as tourists take to the sidewalks, ready to dive into the best of what Rome has to offer. I blend easily into the background as the courtyard becomes more populated and I have to say, I like going unnoticed—being alone. That is, until I find that I’m no longer alone.

The figure now standing two feet in front of me is tall and imposing, blocking out the sun that was just keeping me perfectly warm. I squint as I look up and it takes a moment for me to see anything other than a silhouette.

Once my eyes adjust, I find that my sunlight stealer is a man. His auburn hair contrasts sharply with his fair skin and I can’t quite make out the color of his eyes. He seems to be in his midthirties, but his dark denim jeans and navy polo shirt give nothing away in the age department. I continue to look at him as he glances down at me.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but are you eating pizza?” He has a British accent, which would explain his paleness. He looks at his watch and I’m unable to answer since my mouth is still filled with the aforementioned pizza. “You do know that it is only a quarter past nine in the morning?” His voice sounds aged. Maybe he’s older than I thought.