19. Baleigh
BALEIGH
The morning light filters through the shutters of my Roman hotel room, casting golden stripes across the ceramic floor.
I press my face against the cool glass, watching the city wake up below.
Street vendors arrange their displays of postcards and miniature Colosseum replicas.
A woman in a crisp white apron sweeps the steps of a bakery, the sound of her broom scraping against stone mixing with the distant hum of Vespas navigating the narrow streets.
Just over two weeks left.
The thought hits me like a physical weight settling in my chest. Just a few weeks until I'm home, sitting in my childhood bedroom, explaining to my mother why I'm different now.
Weeks until this version of myself—the one who says yes to adventures and doesn't overthink every conversation—becomes a memory I'll polish like a souvenir.
I pull on a sundress the color of burnt orange, the fabric light against my skin.
The mirror reflects someone I barely recognize.
My hair has grown lighter from the sun, and there's a confidence in my posture that wasn't there two months ago.
I look like someone who belongs in postcards, not someone who sends them.
"You're stalling, Baleigh."
I grab my camera and head downstairs to meet the group for breakfast.
The hotel's courtyard buzzes with the familiar chaos of program life.
Students cluster around small tables, their voices mixing with the clink of espresso cups and the rustle of guidebook pages.
I spot Max near the fountain, his dark head bent over a stack of papers.
Even from across the courtyard, I can see the careful precision in the way he organizes his materials, every movement deliberate.
My pulse quickens, the way it has every morning since Florence shifted into something deeper. But today, there's a thread of panic woven through the attraction. How do I go back to casual conversation when every word between us feels weighted with possibility?
"Morning, sunshine."
Amos appears beside me, balancing a plate of pastries and two cups of coffee. His sandy hair is still damp from the shower, and his sleeves are already rolled up despite the early hour. He hands me a cup without asking if I want it—a small gesture that somehow feels enormous.
"You look like someone stole your favorite pen," he says, settling into the chair beside me. "What's the damage assessment this morning?"
"Just thinking about time," I say, accepting the coffee gratefully. The ceramic is warm against my palms, grounding me in the moment. "How it moves faster when you're not paying attention."
Amos leans back in his chair, studying my face with those bright blue eyes that never miss anything. There's something different about his expression today—less of the easy charm and more of the quiet intelligence he usually keeps hidden behind jokes.
"Ah, the dreaded countdown," he says. "I've seen it hit people around week four. The panic that paradise has an expiration date."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's been watching." His voice drops lower, more serious than I'm used to hearing from him. "I've been doing this for eight years, Baleigh. I've seen hundreds of students go through the same realization. But watching you..."
He trails off, his fingers drumming against the table. The gesture is uncharacteristically nervous for someone who usually radiates confidence.
"Watching me what?"
"Watching you fall in love with this life makes me remember why I started doing it in the first place." He meets my eyes, and there's something raw there, unguarded. "Before it became about logistics and crisis management and never staying anywhere long enough to unpack properly."
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I've grown used to Amos the entertainer, the one who can turn any disaster into a story worth telling. But this version—vulnerable and present—feels like a door opening.
"I don't want to go back," I admit, the words tumbling out. "Not to the life I had, anyway. But I don't know how to stay in this one."
Amos leans forward, his elbows on the table, closing the space between us. "What if you didn't have to choose between them? What if there was a third option you haven't considered yet?"
"Like what?"
"Like building something new. Something that takes the best parts of both worlds and leaves the rest behind."
His hand moves across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. The touch is light, questioning, but it sends warmth shooting up my arm. I don't pull away.
"You make it sound simple."
"Maybe it is simple. Maybe we just convince ourselves it's complicated because simple feels too good to be true."
Around us, the courtyard continues its morning rhythm, but the world has narrowed to this table, this conversation, this moment where possibility hangs in the air like morning mist.
"There you are."
Atticus's voice cuts through my conversation with Amos, and I turn to find him approaching our table with that easy stride that makes everything look effortless. His camera hangs around his neck, and there's a mischievous glint in his eyes that immediately puts me on alert.
"I've been looking for you," he continues, pulling up a chair without invitation. "I need a favor."
Amos raises an eyebrow. "Does this favor involve breaking any local laws? Because I'm still dealing with the fallout from your last brilliant idea."
"That wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know that fountain was considered sacred?" Atticus grins, completely unrepentant. "This is different. Perfectly legal. Mostly safe."
"Mostly safe," I repeat, already feeling my pulse quicken. "That's not exactly reassuring."
"There's an underground jazz club in Trastevere. Real hole-in-the-wall place that tourists never find. They're having an impromptu session tonight, and I need someone to help me document it for an article."
He leans forward, his elbows on the table, and suddenly the space feels charged with possibility. "The catch is, it's invitation only. And the only way to get invited is to perform."
"Perform what exactly?" Amos asks, but his tone suggests he already knows he's not going to like the answer.
"Music. Poetry. Whatever moves you." Atticus's gaze fixes on me, and there's something in his expression that makes my stomach flutter. "I've heard Baleigh sing in the shower. She's got a voice that could stop traffic."
Heat floods my cheeks. "You have not heard me sing in the shower."
"Thin hotel walls," he says with a shrug that's entirely too pleased with itself. "The point is, you're talented. And this is exactly the kind of experience you came to Italy to have."
I glance at Amos, who's watching this exchange with an expression I can't quite read. There's amusement there, but also something deeper, more complicated.
"I don't perform," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I can hear the weakness in my conviction. "I sing in my car. In the shower. Not in front of strangers in underground jazz clubs."
"Why not?" Atticus challenges, and there's that gentle persistence that makes it impossible to hide behind excuses. "What's the worst thing that could happen?"
"Public humiliation. Social exile. The complete destruction of any remaining dignity."
"Or," he counters, "you could discover something about yourself you never knew existed."
The weight of both men's attention settles on me like a physical thing, and I feel caught between two different kinds of wanting, two different versions of the person I might become.
Amos represents comfort, familiarity, the safety of someone who understands the bone-deep fear of taking risks because he's spent years taking them himself, accumulating enough scars to know exactly what they cost. Atticus embodies the unknown, the terrifying thrill of stepping off the edge without a safety net and trusting you'll somehow learn to fly before you hit the ground.
One feels like coming home; the other feels like leaving it.
"This is insane," I murmur, but even as I say it, I'm already imagining it—really imagining it.
The smoky air thick with possibility, the intimate crowd of strangers who won't judge because they came here seeking the same kind of magic, the moment when fear transforms into something electric and alive, when your heartbeat becomes part of the rhythm and you stop being afraid of your own voice.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes something in my chest expand with reckless hope.
"The best things usually are," Atticus says softly, and there's a knowing quality to his voice that suggests he's not just talking about open mic nights anymore.
I look between them—Amos with his protective concern that feels like being wrapped in something warm and secure, and Atticus with his irresistible challenge that feels like being dared to discover who I am when I'm not playing it safe—and feel something fundamental shift inside my chest. The careful compartments I've been methodically building around my feelings, the neat labels I've been trying to assign to these increasingly complicated emotions, start to blur at the edges like watercolours left out in the rain.
What if I don't have to choose? The thought arrives unbidden, dangerous in its simplicity, in how easily it dismantles all the rules I thought I understood.
What if the heart doesn't follow the same logical patterns as everything else?
What if feelings aren't meant to be organized into tidy categories and sensible decisions?