I’ve been wandering around Rome like a zombie for three hours, thinking about Dylan and trying not to think about him at the same time. Not to mention the olive skinned, beautiful woman who obviously still wants him. Or the villa where it they’ll be spending the afternoon together.

I’ve spent years telling myself that I have nothing to be insecure about. That I’m worthy of love, that I’m good enough to be with someone for more than a week. That I don’t have to run away anymore, that it’s okay to give my heart to the right man.

I thought I was making progress, too. But now I’m wondering if I was deceiving myself, because I’m in full-on panic mode. I know this is the twenty-year-old me talking, feeding into my insecurity. Not the grownup who tells people off and has a backbone made of hard-edged steel.

Give no fucks.

The mantra emerges softly from between my lips. Worst case scenario at the end of today: Dylan decides that he doesn’t actually want to be with me. The fact is that I still got to spend last night and this morning with him. He worshipped my body like a fanatic all night, and no one can take that away from me. Not even some Italian vixen with a body that looks like it stepped out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

Besides, it’s a waste of energy to be insecure. I’m supposed to be the woman who gives the fewest fucks imaginable. Resilient, flexible, easy-going Lucy. Not some worried little twit who’s scared of having her heart stomped on.

A cappuccino in hand, I’m now making my way towards the Forum. It’s one of the most famous sets of ruins in Rome, but I have to admit that I’m really just heading there to be around people. I want to watch unconcerned tourists wander around. Maybe I can focus on their stories instead of on my own, take my mind of Dylan for a little.

As I walk the curving Roman streets I let my gaze move from this building to that, taking in the sight of laundry hanging over narrow laneways, suspended from strands of twine between two separate apartments. I love that about this place. Everyone seems attached to one another, somehow. Everything is connected.

Except for me. Right now I’m isolated. Floating on an island somewhere, utterly alone.

I lean against a stucco wall and sip my cappuccino, watching a young man and woman argue in animated voices and very Italian gestures. She’s wearing little shorts, her legs long, tanned and perfect. He’s the essence of style, his hair gelled just so, his shirt crisp white cotton, hugging his svelte body. He looks like a soccer player.

I want to yell, “Kiss each other!” at them, because the way they’re going at it, I know they’ll end up in bed together within a matter of minutes. Only lovers can shout with such passion. Only lovers care enough about each other to flail their arms like that.

He’s defending himself against some sort of accusation. Without even knowing the language, I can tell when a man on the defensive. As for her, she’s saying he made a pass at her friend, or a waitress, or something. He’s gesturing to his chest as if to say, “But honey, you have my heart. Not her.”

I wonder if that’s true. I wonder if any woman has ever really had all of a man’s heart. I wonder if I have even the smallest part of Dylan’s.

Frowning to myself, I continue along the way, determined to stop analyzing my situation too much.

This city smells like a molten stew of life. Pizza, cigars, exhaust, even flowers. Every so often I stumble upon a little fountain where people stop to fill up their water bottles and take a much-needed drink. One fountain has an angry face pouring water from its mouth, another, a fish spitting a constant stream. Even the tiniest touches, hidden away in dark corners, are so Roman. So exquisitely beautiful. The Eternal City is magical.

My heart releases a hard pang as I look around. Insecurities aside, I miss Dylan. As usual, I want his eyes to see what mine are seeing. I want to talk to him about all of it, to point out a particularly beautiful door, or to have him explain to me what sorts of columns I’m looking at. My jealousy is temporarily gone, and all I know now is the warmth of affection for someone who’s made my life better. Someone whose smile has made me happy, his body made me lustful, his brain made me excited.

I’m a girl who wants to love someone, but has never dared. A girl stupid enough to think it might be a good idea to fall for the boy who once broke her heart.

Part of me wants to embrace it, another part wants to push away the depth of my feelings. But I remind myself that whoever I am now, I know I’ll be okay, no matter what happens. I don’t need anyone else to tell me what I’m worth, even if it feels good to hear it. I know who I am. I survived losing Dylan once; if it happens again, I’ll be okay. I’m Lucy Fucking Horner, and it’s okay to care. It’s okay to be vulnerable.

Maybe it’s even okay to love.

When I arrive at the Forum, I make my way through the ticket line and pay my admission, before entering the sacred grounds once occupied by the likes of Julius Caesar. Crowds of foreigners are milling around, taking selfies, ignoring the closeness of ancient Rome in favour of their cell phones. But not me. I’m leaning against a railing and inhaling the place into my lungs. My eyes drag slowly across the ruins—this column, that lonely arch, centuries ago deserted by its crumbling surrounding walls—and I’m savouring this moment. Every stone in this place has been around for countless generations. Men in togas and ratty sandals held meetings in the shadows of the stones that still manage to stand erect in front of my eyes.

I love the antiquity of Rome. I love its capacity to survive. I love that my petty insecurities have no bearing on whether this place lives to see another day. Rome doesn’t care about my crap. It just is. Sometimes it takes an ancient place to remind me of how little I matter in the grand scheme of things. We’re all just a part of a giant puzzle, and Dylan and I are nothing more than the tiniest of pieces.

There are no Italians here. Even the people selling souvenirs come from somewhere else. It’s like the Romans know to stay away from the Forum. They don’t want to deal with people like me. They don’t want to see us marvelling at their treasures. They just want to do their thing, live their lives. And I don’t really blame them.

Finally, after staring for so long that my eyes have glazed over, I succumb to the desire to look at my phone—only for a second, I swear—when I see that a text l has come in from Dylan. Among other things, he says this:

Sweet mother of all that is good and holy.

I’ll admit it: No matter how insignificant I may be in the universe, I needed that.

He says he’s sent a link to my email, which I’m not about to download without Wi-Fi. Oh, God. From what he says, I think it’s photos from the bonfire party. My stomach turns. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to remember. I’m supposed to be moving forward through time, not looking back.

I guess it’s pretty damned ironic that I’m currently staring at a set of ancient ruins and telling myself that the past doesn’t matter. But it doesn’t, not when the present and future have so much potential to be great.

I click my phone off and just revel in my lover’s words. Looking forward to tonight, Dylan?

So am I.