Relearning

Relearning

(Laura’s POV)
Italy didn’t heal me.
Not at first.
It was too beautiful—
too wide, too bright, too loud for someone who felt like a shadow trying to pretend she still had bones.
The residency compound sat on a cliffside in Liguria, overlooking the kind of ocean that poets waste their whole lives trying to describe. The air tasted like salt and lemon and old ruins, and everyone seemed to move slower here, as if time had melted into something soft.
But I arrived feeling like broken glass wrapped in wet paper.
The staff welcomed me with warm smiles; I pretended to return them.
My room was small—whitewashed walls, wooden beams, a balcony overlooking the water. It was the kind of room someone in a movie would find peace in.
I sat there the first night, staring at the horizon until it grew dark, then darker, then black.
I still felt the same.
I waited for the magic moment—the sudden, holy breath that would say, You’re safe now, or Start again, or You made the right choice.
None came.
The next morning, we were asked to introduce ourselves. Artists from all over the world—painters, sculptors, textile creators, photographers. They spoke about their visions, their passions, their previous works.
When it was my turn, I said the only truth I could manage.
“I’m Laura. I… I don’t really know what I’m doing here yet. But I want to try again.”
They nodded—no judgment, no pity. Just quiet acceptance.
And that silence softened me in a way I didn’t expect.
After orientation, I wandered the village alone—cobblestone alleys lined with laundry hanging from balconies, old wooden doors painted in fading turquoise, cats sunbathing as if the world existed only to warm them.
For a moment, I forgot how much my chest hurt.
But healing wasn’t a straight line.
Some days I woke up ready to sketch the sea.
Other days I couldn’t even look at the charcoal pencils without feeling the sting of everything I’d left behind—my unfinished canvases, my mother’s truth, Jacob’s betrayal, Sue’s distance, Cole’s eyes as he watched me walk away.
Especially Cole.
God.
His absence was the loudest sound in this country.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d sit on the balcony wrapped in a blanket and read his letter—the only reply he ever sent before I blocked communication out of self-defense. I didn’t read it to feel better… but because it was the only part of home that didn’t hurt in a violent way.
The residency demanded creation. But I didn’t have creation in me yet.
All I had were pieces.
Still, I tried.
I painted small things first—lemons, stray cats, rooftops. My instructors said my strokes were tense, tight. They suggested breathing exercises, long walks, resting my hands. I followed everything but still felt like a locked door.
Until one afternoon, while wandering alone, I found a narrow pathway leading behind the chapel. It ended at a hidden overlook—a quiet pocket of the world where the wind hummed across the rocks and the sea below roared like a heartbeat.
I sat there and cried without knowing why.
And when I stopped, my hands felt lighter.
I sketched the shoreline.
Then the waves.
Then the cliffs.
And for the first time in months, the charcoal didn’t fight me.
At dinner, the others laughed about the terrible weather forecast, about the garlic in the pasta sauce, about nothing important and everything at once. Someone poured me wine. Someone else asked about my day. Their voices braided together like warmth.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t flinch.
That night, lying in my small Italian bed, I whispered into the dark:
“I’m still here.”
Not healed.
Not whole.
But here.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough for now.

—-

Italy was supposed to be some kind of healing paradise—at least that’s what everyone back home kept calling it. Healing residency, new start, fresh air. Words people say when they want to sound comforting, but don’t really know the shape of your pain.
The truth was… I arrived feeling like a ghost they accidentally let into the country.
The apartment the program provided was small and sunlit, the kind of place that would’ve made me excited months ago. There was a tiny balcony facing a courtyard filled with plants and worn-out terracotta pots. Beautiful, objectively. But beauty meant nothing when you were numb.
Most mornings, I’d wake up long before dawn—heart pounding, hands shaking, eyes swollen. I’d sit at the foot of the bed because standing felt like too much effort. Sometimes I couldn’t even breathe without thinking of home. Of the pieces I left behind. Of Cole.
The first week, I cried so often the skin under my eyes turned raw. I hid it from the others in the program. I hid everything.
They were warm—too warm for someone who felt frozen.
Lena, this girl from Greece, would knock on my door just to hand me a croissant she claimed she “accidentally bought too many of.”
Matteo, one of the older resident artists, would stop by to leave a bottle of water and say, “Hydrate, ragazza. The heart needs water to manage its storms.”
They weren’t moments of comfort.
They were just… hands reaching into a dark room where I refused to turn on the lights.
There were days I relapsed so badly I couldn’t move from the floor. Days where grief felt like a fever, burning through me until I was shaking so hard I thought something inside me would break for real this time.
I’d sit in the shower fully clothed, cold water falling on me because warmth felt like a lie.
I’d stare at my empty canvas, unable to lift a brush because creating something beautiful felt like betrayal—like pretending I wasn’t drowning.
Once, I almost bought a ticket home.
I stood outside a tabacchi shop, phone in my hand, Google Flights open, tears dripping onto the screen. I wanted to go home so badly it hurt more than breathing.
But home was the place where everything fell apart.
Where my dad’s death became a twisted question mark.
Where Mom lied.
Where Sue avoided me.
Where Jacob destroyed something fragile.
Where Cole and I shattered.
So I stayed.
Even when I couldn’t get out of bed.
Even when I felt like I was dissolving slowly, day by day.
Even when the loneliness pressed so hard against my chest I thought I’d crack.
There were nights when Lena found me sitting on the stairs, eyes red, holding my phone like it was a lifeline I wasn’t brave enough to use.
She never asked questions. She just sat beside me, head resting on the wall, saying nothing.
It wasn’t comfort.
It was survival.
And I clung to that thin line, even on days I didn’t want to.
Because healing wasn’t happening. Not yet.
But I was still here.
And for now… for someone like me…
that had to be enough.

—

I thought distance would soften the pain.
Italy was supposed to be air in my lungs, space between me and everything that had already collapsed. Instead, it felt like the ache followed me across the ocean, tucked itself into my suitcase, slept beside me at night.
Some mornings, I woke up convinced I had made a mistake.
The residency studio smelled like paint and old stone. Sunlight poured in through tall windows like it was trying to save me, but I never felt worthy of it. I stood in front of blank canvases for hours, brush unmoving in my hand, my chest tight—like if I started, everything inside me would spill out and I wouldn’t be able to gather it back again.
I cried quietly here.
Always quietly.
In the shower, with the water loud enough to drown my breathing.
On the tram, staring at reflections instead of faces.
At night, curled on the narrow bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling because counting was easier than remembering.
I missed home in fragments.
Not the chaos. Not the pain.
I missed the way Cole used to knock twice before entering a room, like he was asking permission even when he didn’t have to. I missed Sue’s loud laughter echoing down hallways. I missed my mom’s hands—always busy, always steady—even when I was angry at her.
Those memories didn’t comfort me.
They haunted me.
Some days were worse.
Days when the silence felt too heavy, when the thought crept in softly, dangerously: What if I just stopped?
Not in a dramatic way. Not like a cry for help.
Just… stopping.
Ending the noise. Ending the exhaustion. Ending the constant ache of surviving one more day.
Those thoughts scared me most—not because they were loud, but because they were calm.
I didn’t want to die.
I just didn’t want to feel like this anymore.
I tried to tell myself to breathe. To wait. To survive the hour, then the next. Sometimes that worked. Sometimes it didn’t. On the worst nights, I sat on the floor with my back against the wall, arms wrapped tight around myself like I could physically keep myself together.
I made friends here. Kind ones. Gentle ones. They didn’t push. They didn’t ask too many questions. They offered tea, sat beside me, let silence exist without trying to fix it. I was grateful—but even their kindness couldn’t reach the parts of me that were breaking quietly inside.
Because grief doesn’t leave just because you change countries.
It learns the language.
It adapts.
I kept going because stopping felt more terrifying than continuing. Because somewhere, buried under all the pain, was a version of me that still wanted to live—just not like this. Not yet. Not forever.
So I stayed.
I cried.
I breathed.
I survived the days I didn’t think I could.
And even when I felt completely alone, there was a small, stubborn part of me that whispered: You’re still here. That has to mean something.
I didn’t know what healing looked like yet.
But I was still standing in the middle of the wreckage, brush in hand, heart broken—and alive.