Three weeks later. Three weeks, and somehow my life felt like a weird mix of broken glass and sunlight through the cracks. I was in Dr. Silvia Alfieri’s office, a real therapist this time, recommended by Bianchi, which meant I wasn’t just talking to someone who smiled politely and pretended to understand. I was learning—slowly, painfully, but really learning—how to separate what had happened to me from who I actually am.
“Bella, how are you sleeping?” Dr. Alfieri asked, pen poised, eyes patient.
“Better,” I said, twisting my fingers in my lap like I always do when I’m nervous. “Still nightmares sometimes. But… Matteo—” I paused. Saying his name made my stomach do somersaults.
“Tell me about Matteo.”
I laughed, a little hiccup of sound escaping me. “He’s… he’s been everything. Patient. Kind. Doesn’t push. Just… exists beside me while I heal. Like… I don’t have to pretend to be okay. It’s… weirdly magical.”
“That’s good,” she said softly. “You need time. There’s no rush.”
We talked about trauma. About how my body would need time to feel safe again. About how healing wasn’t linear, how some days I’d feel strong and other days tiny cracks in my courage would make me crumble.
“What about intimacy?” she asked gently. “Physical closeness?”
My cheeks heated. “We… kiss. Hold hands. He stays with me sometimes when the nightmares are bad. But… nothing more.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
I laughed nervously. “Grateful he’s patient. But… I think I’m starting to want more. To reclaim that part of myself. But I’m scared. Like, really scared.”
“That’s completely normal,” she said. “When you’re ready, it will happen. And with someone who loves you, it will be different. Better.”
Leaving her office, my mind buzzed with images of him—his hands, his voice, the way he made space for me, made me feel safe. Maybe… maybe I was ready soon. Maybe.
Matteo’s journal, late August:
She came to my cottage tonight! Cardigan pulled tight like armor, brave eyes underneath. First time here alone with me—cuore mio, I wanted every small thing to feel right. Clean table. Fresh basil on the sill. A candle that smells like orange blossom (too much? I hoped not).
“My father’s in Rome. Luisa’s with family. I… wanted to be with you,” she said—words tumbling, spilling herself into my hands.
“You don’t have to explain, Bella,” I told her, brushing that runaway strand from her cheek. “I’m happy you’re here.” (Happy? Ridiculous word. I was lit like harvest noon.)
We sat on my tiny couch—knees touching, fingers grazing, the air a quiet electricity. We talked about nothing and everything. Laughed in the soft, tripping way of people stepping into a new field together. Kisses—slow, careful, like tasting sun-warm grapes to see if they’re ready.
She pulled back, breath unsteady. “Matteo, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Will you… can we… I want to try—” The words tangled; her courage didn’t.
I held her face, thumbs gentle. “Sei sicura? No rush. Ever.”
“I’m sure,” she said—stronger than I expected, and I swear the room stood still to listen. “I want this to be my choice. With someone I love. I want to overwrite the past.”
“Amore, you don’t have to erase,” I whispered. “We make new memories. Good ones. Ours.”
“I want new memories. With you.”
Oh! My crooked smile betrayed me (she says that’s the one that melts her). “Then we go slow. You lead. We stop the second you say. You’re in control.”
“Promise?”
“Giuro.”
Candles. Small flames, safe light. The walls breathed with us. I helped her undress like untying silk from a branch—no haste, no taking, only offering. I checked her eyes. Always her eyes.
“Okay?”
She nodded. “Okay.”
I laid her down as if setting a seedling—palms steady, heart louder than sense. Kisses that said “you’re safe,” and “you’re wanted,” and “I’m here.” When she tensed I held still—hands open, breath matching hers—until the tremor passed.
“We don’t have to—” she began.
She shook her head a heartbeat later. “No… I want this. Just… slow.”
So we moved like evening light across a row—inch by inch, patient. I kept her in the garden with me, talking soft: “Olive trees don’t rush, Bella. They drink light. They keep what they need. Roots first, always.” She gave that breathy laugh—my favorite sound!—and some knot inside me loosened too.
“Are you comparing me to an olive tree?”
“Exactly,” I said, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Patience, sun, water. Strong roots. You grow on your own terms.”
Touch by touch, I felt her trust arrive—like the first cool wind after heat. When she whispered, “Please, Matteo,” I could have cried from the holiness of it. So gentle! So careful! The world reduced to yes, and the yes was hers.
After, tears—not pain; relief, I think, and something like joy finally allowed to bloom. She tucked her head under my chin, heartbeat steadying against mine.
“Thank you,” she said into my chest. “For making it… beautiful.”
“Grazie a te,” I answered, tracing slow circles between her shoulders. “For trusting me.”
We lay there listening to the small night—the ticking pipes, the olive leaves outside doing their secret clapping. I thought: This is how I hold her life—like a sapling in wind, two hands, steady. Not to keep her; to help her stay.
Dio, I love her. I’ll say it here where paper can take the weight: I love you, Bella. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Morning came soft. My phone buzzed. Bianchi. My stomach did that weird little flip.
“The trial date is set. Six months from now. And Bella… two other women have come forward. Former patients of his. Your courage gave them courage.”
I stared at the phone, heart pounding. “I… I have to testify. In front of everyone.”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” Matteo said, wrapping me in his arms. “I’ll be there. Every day. Front row.”
“I know. That’s how I’ll get through it,” I said, letting myself melt into him.
Later, we went outside. The garden was alive, sunlight painting leaves and soil gold. Matteo knelt near the rosemary bushes, hands in the dirt, precise, careful, focused.
“See, Bella?” he said, brushing the soil around the roots. “It’s the small gestures, the little touches that make something thrive. You can’t rush it. Not the plant, not yourself.”
I rested my head against his shoulder. “You’re seriously a plant whisperer, you know that?”
“Maybe,” he said with a small grin. “Or maybe I just love watching things grow… especially the important ones.”
I squeezed his hand. Even after everything, even after all the fear and scars, I could breathe here. I could laugh. I could trust.
Matteo’s journal, late August:
Watching her like this, safe and soft, made me realize how much I was in love with her. Not some shallow, fleeting crush. This was the deep, grounding love that made you want to protect her roots, water her soul, let her bloom at her pace.
“Bella,” I murmured, brushing her hair back gently, “you’re stronger than you think. And I’ll be here, every day, every step, making sure you see that too.”
She leaned into me, trusting, fragile and bold all at once. I kissed her forehead, breathed in the scent of her hair, and knew that nothing in the world mattered more than keeping her safe while she learned to love herself again.
“Ready for the next chapter?” I asked softly. She looked up at me, eyes glimmering. “With you? Always.” And I believed her.