Lonely caverns built on fragile frames
Full of broken crowns, forgotten names
Don't leave me here
Don't leave me here

-Sød Ven

Chiara doesn't know how to be normal.

She contemplates this as she sits picking at her breakfast, drowning in the awkwardness that is her parents trying to act civil to one other in public.

"So," her mum says after another long stretch of silence, her deliberately casual tone ruined by the white-knuckled grip she has on her fork. "How's Francesca?"

Her dad chokes slightly on the orange juice he's halfway through drinking. "She – she's good," he stutters, casting a glance at Chiara that she pretends not to notice. "We – we're thinking about renovating, you know, for the – " he breaks off at Elsa's pointed sniff, his jaw stiff with annoyance.

"How delightful." Elsa's smile is viper sharp. "So does she… work?"

Her dad places his glass carefully on the table, clearly bracing himself for an argument. "Yes, she works."

Her mother's eyebrows quirk delicately.

"She's…" Arturo coughs. "She's a yoga instructor."

"Ah." The single word drips with so much disdain Chiara wonders for a minute that they're not actually swimming in it.

Her father bristles. "What do you mean, 'Ah'?"

"Nothing." Her mother attempts an expression of mock innocence, before abandoning it with a flick of her wrist. "It's just, a yoga instructor, Arturo, really – "

"Well, it's better than a failed senator – "

" – completely classless being seen with some 18 year old – "

" – she's 27, for Christ's sake – "

" – kind of example we're setting our daughter – "

" – oh because you're setting such a great example yourself – "

" – why you always have to turn it around onto me – "

" – you're the one who – "

Chiara stares out the window, letting the din of their argument fade into white noise. Outside, it's a hot summer's day, typical Rome in August weather. If she was a normal 18 year old, she'd probably be busy organising a party with her friends right now, or going out with her boyfriend, or any number of the kind of things normal people do to celebrate their milestones.

Instead, all she wants is to go back to that moment on the swing earlier this morning, and the elation that filled her lungs when Nico sent her flying.

Her eyes flicker to her new phone. Her parents had presented it to her the moment she sat down for breakfast, their faces earnest and eager to please. Much to their consternation, she hadn't been allowed one inside the reform centre.

Pulling it towards her now, she taps in Nico's number and sends off a message before she can think twice.

My parents are already driving me crazy. Help.

She puts the phone back on the table and takes a sip of coffee, her leg jiggling nervously. It feels like forever before the chime of a notification breaks through the sound of her parents bickering.

She snatches the phone back up, lips tightening when she reads his single word reply.

Chiara?

She wants to ask him who else would be texting him this early on a Saturday morning begging for help. Knows she has no right to ask him those kinds of questions anymore, if she ever did.

Yes, it's me.

This time, the reply is almost instantaneous.

You got a phone? About time.

She allows herself a little smile, then lets it slip away. She shouldn't be bothering Nico. After all, he's got his own life to live, and he can't be there for every little problem she faces. Chiara knows better than to rely on him. She knows better than to rely on anyone.

Her phone dings again with another message.

"Enough!" her mother suddenly snaps, bringing her palm down on the table with a smack. Her cheeks are flushed. "For God's sake, Arturo, we're supposed to be here talking to our daughter." She looks pointedly at the phone in Chiara's hand.

Her father winces. "Sorry," he says, running a hand over his face. "Sorry, Chiara. Your mother and I just… well, never mind."

They both look at her expectantly, as if waiting for a response. When she doesn't offer one Elsa sighs. "We need to talk about your plans, Chiara," she says, in the matter-of-fact tone she uses for electoral campaigning. "Your father and I – " she shoots a glance at Arturo – "think it's best if you live with me for now."

Chiara looks at her father, who has the grace to look a little chagrined. "My new place is just really small," he mumbles, fiddling with his fork and avoiding meeting her gaze. "And, well, with Francesca and the – "

"Besides, it will be nice to have you back with me," Elsa cuts him off, reaching forward to squeeze Chiara's shoulder, sharp nails digging into her skin. "Since the state decided I'm apparently such an unfit mother - "

"Oh God, Elsa, not this again," Arturo sighs.

"I'm just saying," her mother bites out. "That the way they tried to blame it all on me – "

"Can't you focus on anyone but yourself for even one – "

" – as if I could have possibly known – "

" – the most selfish, self absorbed person I have ever – "

" – how you can say that when you were the one who – "

" – totally ridiculous to even suggest – "

Her phone dings again.

"Chiara!" Her mother says sharply, shifting from glaring at her ex husband to her instead. "Who are you talking to?"

"No one," says Chiara. She watches as her parents share a loaded look, seemingly united for once in their disapproval.

"Chiara – " her father begins, and she rolls her eyes.

"It's Nico, okay," she says, hunching her shoulders against the suspicion in their faces. "You want to check for yourself? Go ahead." She tosses the phone into the middle of the table. "No, I haven't gone back to whoring the minute I get out of juvie."

Her phone dings again, absurdly loud in the frosty silence that has fallen over the table.

Then, "Nico?" her mother blinks as the name registers. "Niccolò Rossi?"

"What other Nico is there," replies Chiara sullenly.

"I didn't realise the two of you were still talking."

"He was with her this morning," her dad puts in, and Chiara shoots him a glare, not appreciating him volunteering this information so freely.

"Well, that's wonderful news!" Elsa's smile is almost painfully bright. "I'm so pleased to hear that, Chiara."

The subtext of her words are obvious. Thank God you haven't completely ruined your reputation. After all, if the Rossis are willing to accept her back it will go a long way to re-establishing their ruined social standing.

Chiara knows this is what is running through her mother's head, and the thought makes her sick. She doesn't bother explaining that the Rossis have probably blacklisted her like the rest of Parioli, that Cami can barely look her in the eye anymore, and that the only reason Nico still talks to her is out of some absurd guilt over how he treated her in high school. The thought of trying to explain any of that to her parents is exhausting.

Instead, Chiara drags the phone back to her without speaking. Neither of her parents try to interrupt, perfectly satisfied now they know who she is talking to.

It would be that easy – the thought flits through her mind, quick as an arrow – to go back to it, like nothing ever happened. They wouldn't even suspect anything.

She cuts the thought off like a slamming door, and opens Nico's messages.

Want to go for a drive somewhere? I can pick you up.

Or we can hang at mine.

Hey, you still alive?

Need a SWAT extraction?

She snorts softly, then places the phone down without replying. It's dangerous to get too close to Niccolò Rossi, as she knows from past experience. His is the kind of face you can lose yourself in, and Chiara can't afford that. Not so soon after she has been found.

"So will you be seeing him again soon?" Elsa asks, shamelessly attempting to read the messages from where she sits. Chiara flips her phone over.

"Probably not."

"Oh." Her mother visibly wilts. "That's a shame. I always liked that boy."

Arturo snorts into his drink. "You mean you like his family's Swiss bank accounts."

"Well, that is rich coming from you – "

"I guess the truth hurts, Elsa – "

" – what could you possibly know about – "

" – not this again for God's sake – "

Chiara goes back to staring out the window.

She goes home with her mum, giving her dad an awkward hug on the street outside the restaurant and promising to come round later to meet his new girlfriend. Her mum sniffs at this, and it isn't long after they're in the car and driving back to Rome that she starts on her.

"You shouldn't feel obliged to indulge your father in his silly little midlife crisis, Chiara," she says, her tone cold and hard as she navigates a traffic snarl on the freeway.

Chiara gazes out the window and doesn't say anything to this, which only infuriates her mother further.

"I know we're all supposed to act nice and play along with his… proclivities. But if you're not comfortable around that woman I completely understand."

Chiara turns to her in disbelief. "I'm not the one who's uncomfortable, mum."

Her mother's voice takes on a querulous edge. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know why you can't just be happy for him," Chiara says, frustration pooling in her chest at the sight of her mother's stiff posture, the anger radiating from her in waves. "God, maybe if you went out and got laid yourself you might actually – "

"Chiara, that's enough!"

She bites her tongue and turns back to the window, and they ride the rest of the way to Parioli in silence.

Her room is the same as she left it, and Chiara finds this so odd, like visiting the preserved house of someone long dead. She doesn't recognise the girl who lived in this room; the pictures on the walls, the furnishings, even the bed covers look strange to her, like they belong to a distant relative she met once or twice but never really knew.

She stares at the childish bedspread she once begged her parents to buy her, patterned with purple butterflies, and contemplates the odd fact that, of all the men she's been with, there's only one who has ever slept in this bed with her.

Her mum is clattering in the kitchen, arguing loudly on the phone. Chiara doesn't bother trying to listen. She lies down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, counting her breaths the way her counsellor instructed her to do whenever that feeling of dread and panic starts to fill her chest.

Just breathe, Chiara. Remember whatever you're feeling will pass. Just breathe.

The problem, Chiara thinks, is that she doesn't really feel much of anything. This is because there's something wrong with her, she knows. Something is broken inside her, something that used to work but doesn't anymore.

Her phone chimes again, and she rolls over to pick it up.

I'll be in the park, in case you manage to break free.

She stares at the message for a long time. Thinks vaguely of another time, a lifetime ago, when he had summoned her to that same park, confronting her furiously with a look like thunder on his face.

Are you screwing that asshole?

And what if I am?

No way, Chiara. You're smarter than that.

"Chiara!" Her mother calls from downstairs. "Come and eat!"

She takes her time getting ready, dawdling at the vanity, letting her fingers run over her old makeup, tubes of mascara and eyeshadow that make her shiver with memories. It's all still there, right where she left it. She can't believe her mum hasn't set fire to it.

"Chiara, the coffee's getting cold!"

Chiara stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is longer now, almost to her waist, and she's not wearing any make up. It had been invigorating, while she was serving her punishment, to not have to worry about those stupid rituals that used to take up so much of her day; to have no one to impress. Now that she is back in Parioli she knows it won't be long until she is drawn back into that world, fussing over clothes, shoes, hair, make up.

The desire to flee trickles down her spine.

"Chiara!"

"I'm coming" she yells back. Takes a final look at herself, then seizes her phone and walks out of the bedroom.

Her mother has made espresso and salad. She leans against the counter, tapping away at her phone, and gives Chiara a tight smile when she finally enters.

"There you are." She pushes a bowl of greens towards her. "Eat. You hardly touched your breakfast." She waits until Chiara puts a forkful of lettuce in her mouth before nodding in satisfaction. "I thought we might go shopping this afternoon, for your birthday." She gazes critically at Chiara's simple top and jeans. "It's time you got some new clothes."

"I thought I might go for a walk."

Her mother looks at her like she's expressed a desire to dance naked down the street. "A walk?" she repeats blankly.

"Yeah."

"Chiara, your car is still here," her mum says, as if she might be confused. "Your father's got it all ready for you."

She smiles sadly at her mother, feeling a strange rush of tenderness for this woman who has somehow raised her from infancy to adolescence without ever actually getting to know her at all. "I know," she says. "But I just want to walk around for a bit. I wasn't allowed to do that in the centre."

"Oh. Well, all right." Her mother nods and straightens, smooths her hands over her designer dress. "We can always go another time. We have at least a couple of weeks until we have to get you enrolled in Sapienza."

Chiara nearly chokes on the lettuce she is forcing down. "What?"

Her mother gives her a forbearing look. "It's all arranged, Chiara, you don't need to worry. Your grandfather's an old friend of the Rector. There's just a bit of paperwork that needs filling out and then it's settled."

Settled. Chiara stares at her mother, feeling a million miles away. "Studying what?"

Her mother doesn't even hesitate. "Finance, of course."

Very slowly, Chiara pushes her chair back and stands up.

Elsa shoots her a startled look. "Where are you going?"

"For a walk."

"Right now? But Chiara – "

She turns and walks away, letting herself out of the house without a backwards glance. She's gone out with nothing but her phone and the clothes she's wearing, but it doesn't really bother her. She knows this part of Rome like the back of her own hand, and if she spends one more minute inside that house she will almost certainly scream.

It's midday, and hot. Chiara turns her feet towards the river, taking the familiar backroads, letting her senses soak in the array of noise and colour and light that make up her home city. Despite everything, she finds herself smiling. There are bitter memories etched into the footpath here, but for now at least it is nice to be home.

It's fate, maybe. Or coincidence. Rome isn't, after all, that big a place. Sometimes it feels like a fishbowl; like now, when Chiara takes a turn along a stretch of river to one of her favourite old lookouts, and finds herself alongside with a very familiar face.

She freezes, staring at the boy leaning against the parapet, the sight of him doing strange things to her insides.

Damiano looks as astonished to see her as she is. For a long moment he just gapes at her, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his vision, before he shakes his head and takes a tentative step towards her.

"Chiara?"

She smiles.

"But – " surprise is giving way to confusion now, his brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of her. "What are you doing here?"

He has no idea what day it is. Chiara doesn't want to draw the comparison with Nico, but her brain can't help it.

"It's my birthday," she says simply.

He blinks. "Your – are you serious?" She can see the cogs turning in his brain. "So that means – they let you out?" When she nods again his face breaks into a broad grin, and he steps forward to embrace her. "Well, shit, happy birthday!"

She squeezes him back, a lump forming in her throat. There's a million things she wants to say to him, so many questions she needs answers to, but right now it's enough to feel the warmth of his arms around her, and the gentle kiss he presses into her hair before releasing her. It's enough to see his smile without any bitterness attached to it. It's the kind of smile that tells her he's forgiven her.

"Man, it's good to see you," he says, his smile flickering ever so slightly. "I'm sorry I never, you know – "

She shrugs, not wanting to dwell on that. It's a conversation for another time. She gestures along the river path, and he nods, understanding her meaning. They fall into step beside one another, walking at a leisurely pace. Damiano is first to break the silence.

"So," he says, casting her a sidelong glance that covers her from head to toe. "How are you?"

"I'm good," she says. You're a true wordsmith, Chiara. The voice echoes in her head before she can stop it. "How about you? How's life?"

He considers her answer, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Life's… really fucking good, actually," he says, with a grin that makes her happy and a little sad at the same time. He casts her a shifty glance, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I guess you've heard about me and Aurora?"

Chiara keeps her smile in place. It's not a surprise, after all. She had read the truth in Nico's expression when she asked him earlier. "Aurora," she tests the name on her tongue, smiles a little wider. "So do I get to meet her?"

He laughs. "Of course." There's a lightness to his shoulders that she doesn't remember from the time when they were together. He really does look happy. "Should I tell her to meet us at the park?"

She arches a brow at him. "How do you know that's where I'm going?"

He snorts, and gestures ahead of them. "Cause we're nearly there."

With a jolt of surprise, Chiara realises he is right. She has been so intent on studying him that she hasn't realised where their feet have carried them. Looking ahead, she sees clusters of young people gathered in groups across the lawns. Her eyes scan them quickly.

"Listen, Chiara," Damiano grabs her hand without warning, turning her to face him. His expression is serious, and he chews his bottom lip as he studies her. "I just want to say – I'm sorry how things ended between us. I'm sorry I never came and visited and – and I just – I had to sort my own stuff out, you know, and – and I hope you understand why I had to do it like that."

He's clinging to her hand, his face so earnest it's impossible to hold onto any anger. Not that she has any towards him anyway. She was the one who wronged him, after all, and in such a fundamental way she's amazed he can still touch her so carelessly. She certainly doesn't blame him for staying away.

"I understand," she says, and he lets out a breath of what seems to be relief. His spare hand reaches to smooth her hair, lingering on the side of her neck.

The sound of a bouncing ball cuts sharply through the air, and Chiara turns her head to find Nico standing less than ten feet away. There's a basketball tucked under his left arm, and his face is cold and hard as he regards her.

Damiano lets his hand drop from her neck; gives her fingers a tight squeeze and lets them go too. "Hey man," he greets Nico in a stiff voice, shifting slightly on his feet to put a little more distance between them.

Nico's gaze travels over Damiano, then Chiara, in a way that makes her feel naked. She can see that he's sucking his teeth, that cold sneer he used to wear all the time curling at the edges of his mouth. The way he's looking at her makes her want to throw something at him.

"Can you give us a minute?" she says, gesturing to herself and Damiano. Nico scowls, and spins abruptly, stalking off without another word. Chiara sees him hurl the basketball at one of his mates, hard enough that the other boy stumbles.

She turns back to find Damiano regarding her critically. "What?"

"He's pissed," he says.

She stares at him, her heart thudding a warning in her chest. She's not an idiot, after all, and knows what he's implying. "It's not like that between Nico and me."

"Like fuck it's not," Damiano retorts, more heated than she was expecting. "He's crazy about you, Chiara, how can you not see that?"

She glances in the direction Nico has stormed off. He's only a dot in the distance now, striding across the park in the opposite direction. Another few minutes and he'll be out of sight altogether. She drags her eyes back to Damiano.

"He's not," she says, her voice flat and distant. "He just feels bad about everything that happened at school. He feels responsible."

Damiano fishes out a cigarette from his pocket, lights it and takes a long drag. "That guy," he says eventually, gesturing with his smoke in Nico's direction. "Has been in love with you the entire time I've known him. It's got shit all to do with feeling responsible." When Chiara just stands there staring at him he shakes his head and gives her a gentle shove. "Seriously, what are you still doing here? Fucking go after him!"

She hesitates for half a second, then throws her arms around him, nearly knocking him over with the force of it. "I'll see you later," she promises, and feels him nod against her. Drawing back, she shoots him a grin, then pivots and sprints away.

She's a good runner, but she still almost doesn't catch Nico before he gets to the end of the park. He's in the last grove of trees before the main road when she finally catches him, yanking on his elbow to bring him to a halt.

He spins around. "What the fuck do you want?"

She huffs, breathless and slightly winded from her sprint across the park. It takes a second for her to catch her breath. "What the hell is your problem?" she demands at last.

"My problem?" There's an ugly sneer on his face. "I'm not the one with a problem."

"Could've fooled me," she retaliates hotly. "Where are you going?"

He laughs and lifts his eyes to the heavens. "Away from this shit," he says, motioning behind them. "Is that okay with you, your highness?"

She feels a spark of anger travel up her spine. "You're the one who told me to come here!"

"Yeah, I did." Nico's jaw is tight, his brow furrowed in anger. "I guess I didn't expect you to show up with him."

It's like déjà vu, this conversation, and Chiara hates it. Hates the way he is looking at her, how it makes her feel so small and shameful and pathetic. Hates that he still has so much power over her.

"He's my friend," she says, lifting her chin.

Nico scoffs. "Bit more than that, by the looks of things."

"What would you know," she snaps, something sharp and painful throbbing in the centre of her chest. "You don't know anything about my relationship with Damiano!"

He sneers, taking a step closer so he's crowding her space. "I know he's been screwing someone else the whole time you've been locked up," he says, lowering his voice as he looks at her, his tone dripping scorn. "But I guess you're used to that by now."

She shoves him, hard. "Go to hell, Nico."

His eyes flash. "Fine. Fine." He stalks away from her, then spins back around. "You know I just don't fucking get you, Chiara. You say you want to get out of this place, that you don't belong here anymore." He shakes his head, gesturing angrily behind them. "And then the minute you're free you just go running back to the same old shit."

She opens her mouth to tell him he's wrong, but the words stick in her throat. How can she possibly explain that the only reason she is even here is because she can't seem to stay away from him, no matter how much she knows she should. That it has nothing whatsoever to do with Damiano, and everything to do with him.

She knows there's no point trying to explain that. Because Damiano's wrong. Nico's not in love with her; he's never been in love with her. She's just a distraction for him, something to keep him busy in between acting out the role that's been waiting for him since he was born.

It's a role that has never had any place for her.

Nico steps forward, his gaze roving over her face. "Well," he says in a low voice. "What's it going to be, Chiara?"

Chiara presses her lips together. No, he doesn't love her. He didn't back then, when she was young and innocent and normal, and he certainly doesn't now, after everything she's done.

She lifts her head. "I don't have to explain myself to you. If I want to screw Damiano it's none of your fucking business."

She watches him closely, sees his pupils widen and the skin around his eyes tighten, before his expression shutters and goes very hard. He recoils visibly, and gives her a disgusted once over, his gaze hooded and dark. "You want to screw him?" he asks, a muscle clenching in his jaw and his lip curled like he's tasting something sour. "Go ahead, then. Fucking see if I care."

She stands there and watches him walk away