The Things We Don’t Say

It had been four days.

Four days since the oak tree.

Four days since the words she still couldn't believe came out of his mouth.

Four days since she walked away and didn't look back — even though every part of her had wanted to.

Bell hadn't cried.

Not the way people expected her to. She went through the motions. She got up. She ate. She texted friends like nothing had changed.

But it had.

Everything had.

And now, standing near the edge of her front window, coffee in hand, she saw him.

Alessandro.

Jogging up the driveway to the Marchetti estate, shirt slung over his shoulder, his skin gleaming with sweat in the summer sun. His chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths, and his hair was damp, curls clinging to his forehead.

Bell froze.

He didn't see her. He didn't even glance her way.

He reached the top of the grand staircase, slowed to a walk, then sat — long legs sprawled in front of him, hands bracing himself behind him as he tilted his head back toward the sky.

She watched as he shook out his hair and dragged a hand down his face, chest still heaving lightly from the run.

He looked…

Not broken.

Not hurting.

Just tired.

Like it hadn't gutted him to let her go.

Like he was fine.

Like she never mattered at all.

Her grip tightened around her mug.

Don't cry.

He doesn't get your tears.

Still, her throat burned.

Because even though he didn't see her, she saw him — and that hurt more than anything.

She turned from the window before he could move again.

She didn't want to watch him get up and walk inside like her absence wasn't echoing through that entire house.

.....

INT. CASANOVA ESTATE— A FEW DAYS LATER

It was late afternoon, and the sun was warm against the pavement, the kind of golden that made everything look like a photograph.

Bell stood in front of the mirror one last time, adjusting the knot at the back of her lace-tied tube top, the soft fabric hugging her figure perfectly. Her denim shorts hit just above mid-thigh, frayed at the edges like they'd been worn in with laughter and long days in the sun. She'd added a delicate waist chain, barely visible unless you really looked — and if someone was looking, that was their business.

Her hair was up in a messy bun, but she'd curled the ends that fell loose at her neck. Diamond hoops, a sun-kissed makeup glow, and platform sandals finished the look.

She looked in the mirror and took a breath. You don't need to look good for anyone but you. And yet… if he saw her like this?

Well. That wasn't her problem.

She grabbed her drink and slung her purse over her shoulder.

...

The car was already waiting at the curb, her friends inside with the music low and the windows down.

Bell stepped out onto the front steps, feeling the heat cling to her skin. She made her way down, walking like she had somewhere to be — like her heart hadn't been broken a week ago under the tree that stood just out of sight behind her.

But as she rounded the car to slide into the back seat—

Alessandro. Walking up the street.

Shirt clinging to him. Laughing at something Marco said beside him. His hand running through his hair.

And then he looked up.

And saw her.

She froze mid-step. Just for a second.

So did he.

It was instant. Unmistakable. The way his eyes raked over her — not with lust, not even jealousy — but something else entirely.

Marco glanced between them, saying nothing.

Bell forced her eyes away from him. It hurt too much to try and pretend to be okay in front of him.

She got into the car closing it shut. Her friends pulled off. She kept her head down.

But when they got far enough and she turned around, she saw Alessandro going into his house now. Not even sparing a glance to the car.