The first light of morning spilled across Lila's small Florence apartment, brushing the terracotta rooftops with a soft glow.
Lila Callahan stretched, her arms reaching above her head, muscles stiff from yesterday's exploration. The city outside was waking slowly—deliveries being made, shutters clanging open, the faint aroma of bread from the nearby bakery curling through the streets.
She tied her hair into a loose ponytail, grabbed her sketchbook, and slipped into her worn sneakers. Today was about movement, she had decided—no lingering at cafés, no hours lost to endless people-watching. She wanted the city in its rawest form: bustling markets, crowded squares, the odd encounter, anything that would challenge her ability to capture life as it happened.
The first stop was the San Lorenzo Market, where merchants shouted over one another, calling attention to the ripest tomatoes or the most fragrant herbs.
Lila loved this chaos, the mix of colors, smells, and personalities—but most of all, she loved capturing it in her sketches. She found a quiet corner by a stall selling hand-painted ceramics, propping her sketchbook against a basket of vibrant bowls.
As she drew, she noticed a lady struggling to juggle a tray of pastries and a large canvas under one arm. The tray wobbled precariously as she navigated through the narrow aisle, and without thinking, Lila stepped forward.
"Careful!" she called out, lunging just in time to steady the tray with one hand.
She looked up, startled, a flustered smile spreading across her face. "Oh! Thank you—I didn't see you there."
"You almost caused a pastry massacre," Lila said, laughing, her tone light. "I couldn't let the city lose a croissant on my watch."
She chuckled, setting the tray down on a nearby table. "I appreciate that. I'm Carla," she said, extending a hand.
"Lila," she replied, shaking her hand with mock formality. "Protector of pastries, chronic sketcher of chaos, at your service."
Carla laughed, a genuine, easy sound that made her smile. "I'm lucky to meet someone so… heroic."
They lingered in conversation, exchanging small details about life in Florence. Carla was a local, a painter who sold small works at markets and occasionally helped set up exhibitions. Lila found herself drawn into her stories, the way she described the city, the colors she saw, and the subtle rhythms of everyday life that she often overlooked.
"You must sketch constantly," she said, glancing at her open book.
"I try," she admitted, flipping through pages filled with small studies of buildings, people, and fleeting moments. "It helps me see the city differently. But mostly, it keeps me out of trouble."
Carla nodded thoughtfully. "I can see that. There's attention in your work. Care… like you notice more than most people allow themselves to."
Lila laughed softly. "Or maybe I just overthink everything. Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference."
They walked together for a while, weaving through narrow lanes and past fountains, each discovering corners of Florence the other had overlooked. Lila felt lighter than she had in weeks. Her illness, the quiet weight it carried, receded for a while, replaced by laughter, curiosity, and the warm hum of human connection.
At one point, they stopped at a tiny leather shop tucked behind a corner. Carla picked up a sketchbook from the display and flipped it open. "Ever consider using a leather-bound journal? There's something about it… makes the drawings feel permanent, I guess."
Lila tilted her head, considering it. "I like the idea, but there's something in a plain, worn sketchbook that makes mistakes feel like they belong. Leather feels a little… too serious."
"Maybe that's the point," Carla said, smiling. "But I get it. Imperfections have their charm."
They laughed together, sharing small, private jokes that required no explanation. Lila noticed the way Carla's eyes crinkled when she smiled, how she gestured animatedly as she spoke, and how she seemed entirely present in the moment. It was refreshing, grounding.
By late afternoon, they parted ways near the Piazza del Duomo, the sun dipping low and painting the cathedral in golden hues. Carla waved, a casual yet warm gesture. "See you around, Lila. Don't lose your sketchbook to the chaos of the city," she called.
"You'll have to save it next time," she replied, raising her hand in a mock salute. "I expect heroic intervention if pastries or sketchbooks are threatened."
She wandered home slowly, allowing herself to reflect on the day. Carla was pleasant, humorous, and kind, it would be great to have a friend like her but she wasn't about to have any onboard her unassured life.
Once home, Lila flopped onto her bed, sketchbook open. She drew Carla's profile lightly, the warmth in her expression. But she didn't linger too long—her mind inevitably drifted to her other sketches, the one that had occupied her dreams for years. She stared at an old page, tracing the curves of the face, the sculpted features, the intense gaze. A pang of longing stirred in her chest.
For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself a small smile at the thought. Perhaps one day, in Florence or elsewhere, she would encounter him. Perhaps the universe had its own sense of timing. Until then, she could enjoy the present—the laughter, the warmth, the vibrant chaos of life that Carla and the city offered her.
She closed her sketchbook, propping it beside her. The city hummed outside her window, lights flickering on, life continuing despite illness, longing, or delay. And as she settled in for the evening, she let herself quietly hope, somewhere deep inside, that life had more surprises waiting for her—some tangible, some elusive, and some that existed entirely in her imagination.