Not Yet, But Soon

The rain always fell differently in Verona—soft, hushed, as if the sky were trying not to disturb anyone’s sorrow. Elena had always liked it that way. She stood under the arched stone walkway near the Piazza delle Erbe, watching the soft drizzle blur the warm glow of the old streetlamps. Verona at dusk looked like a watercolor painting someone had ruined with tears.

She pulled her coat tighter. It had been three years since she left—three years since she walked away from the life she once thought she would never grow out of. Three years since she ran from him.

Luca Bianchi.

The boy she loved.

The man she couldn’t forgive.

The regret she never fully outran.

Elena had not planned to return. She had spent years trying to forget: the sound of his voice, the way he always tugged his scarf loose when he was anxious, the gentle strength in his hands when he held her during their quietest moments. She thought distance would be her salvation. But life didn’t always keep its promises.

Her mother’s letter arrived two weeks ago—a soft, trembling handwriting that had grown smaller with age.

Come home, Elena. I need you.

So Elena returned. And Verona, with all its nostalgia and cruelty, met her at the station like an old ghost.

She took a slow breath and began walking toward the small café at the corner of Via Mazzini. The bells over the door chimed softly when she entered. The familiar scent of roasted coffee beans wrapped around her like an old memory.

She stopped. The world narrowed.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair a little longer than she remembered, stood Luca.

His eyes lifted at the sound of the bell. For a second, he froze—like a man seeing a dream he had convinced himself to forget.

“Elena…” he whispered.

Her breath caught.

Of all the places she had feared to walk into, this one was the worst. She had rehearsed a dozen versions of this moment on the train. Each ended with her being composed. Dignified.

But seeing him again shattered every script she had prepared.

“Hello, Luca,” she managed.

He stepped forward slightly, hesitant—as though afraid she might disappear if he moved too fast. “You’re back.”

“Just for a while. My mother… she needs me.”

He nodded. She noticed the tiny scar on his hand, the one he got from a broken wine bottle their last summer together. She had bandaged it for him while he whispered apologies for the argument they had just had. The memory blinked in her mind, uninvited.

“Cappuccino?” he asked gently, as though clinging to something familiar.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

Luca turned to the machine, trying to hide the shaking in his hands. He had imagined this day countless times—what he would say, how he would apologize for the mistake that drove her away. But now that she was standing three feet from him, every word felt too small.

He placed the cup in front of her. “On the house.”

Elena forced a polite smile. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said softly.

Silence stretched between them, tangled and fragile.

She finally looked around. The café looked different. Warmer. More… lived-in.

“You remodeled,” she said.

“After you left,” he replied.

The air tightened. Elena swallowed hard.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” His voice was gentle. “It’s okay.”

But nothing was okay, and they both knew it.

Outside, the rain thickened, turning the street into a shimmering river of reflections. Elena wrapped her fingers around the cup, letting the warmth seep into her cold hands.

“I heard about your mother,” Luca began carefully. “Is she alright?”

“She’s… getting older,” Elena murmured. “And I wasn’t here. For any of it.”

“Elena…” His voice broke slightly, but he steadied himself. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

She looked up sharply. “I’m not.”

But her trembling hands betrayed her.

Luca lowered his gaze. “I’m glad you’re back. Even if it’s only temporary.”

She exhaled shakily. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay.”

“I know.”

He paused.

“But I’m still glad.”

For the first time that evening, Elena let herself truly look at him. Not as the boy she once loved, nor as the past she tried to bury. But as the man standing there now—older, quieter, carrying his own scars.

And in his eyes, she saw it:

The regret.

The longing.

The unspoken I’m sorry that still lived inside him.

A storm rose in her chest—memories she had sealed away, emotions she thought she had tamed.

Don’t do this to yourself, she warned silently.

You came home to help your mother, not to fall into old wounds.

“Elena,” Luca whispered. “Can we… talk? One day. Not today. Just… someday.”

Her heart clenched.

She didn’t answer.

But her silence wasn’t a no.