croissants and a latte.

by elaine hong

I wonder what it feels like to be the veins in my body.

It must be difficult to carry blood to my hands and feet every day.

Maybe they’re tired. Maybe that’s why they're taking a break now.

I would too if I were them.

I wonder if my heart is angry at me.

Maybe it doesn’t like being forced to beat for a body that doesn’t feed it.

Maybe it’s taking its revenge.

The plane reaches the ground at the same time as the sun.

Even from the window, I can hear the ancient voices of architecture, art, and history beckoning.

I’m in Italy!

I’ve dreamed of visiting this place every day while listening to art and philosophy podcasts in classrooms filled with paints and easels.

The bus finally arrives at the restaurant.

My classmates dive into their pasta while I stare at the plate in front of me.

I hear the doctor’s voice in my head:

Climbing over a second-story balcony is difficult when you’re wearing a turtleneck, two sweaters, and your thickest coat. My gloved hands struggle to hold onto the railings.

Somehow, I manage to descend the stone wall and drop to the cobblestone alleyway.

The teachers told us to stay in our rooms, but the Empty has occupied most of my small one-bed room. It sucked up all the oxygen, and I could barely breathe in there, let alone sleep.

Besides, how can I sleep? This is Italy!

Even at midnight, the streets are alive.

Imagine living in these ruins-turned-tourist-attractions…

At the Pantheon, I ignore the velvet ropes and glass cases, replacing them with Athena shaking her spear.

Inside the Antico Caffé Greco, the oldest café in Rome, I imagine the customers wearing 1760s Italian clothing, discussing the current state of the Holy Roman Empire.