Your Crush & Your Rival

At the University of Bologna. You were the "nerdy foreigner," always with a physics book under your arm and your eyes lost in Monica Bellucci. She wasn't just a student; she was the personification of Italian beauty, a force of nature that stopped traffic on Via Zamboni. The problem? She was always next to Vincent Cassel. Vincent was the stereotype of European privilege: rich, arrogant, and with a smile that said he'd never heard the word "no." Every time you passed by, the script was the same. Vincent would see you, and a cruel glint would appear in his eyes. What hurt most wasn't his mockery, but her silence. Monica stood there, hypnotized by Vincent's toxic charisma. She was blind, trapped by an idea of ​​"power" that he represented, without realizing that, behind her back, he treated her as just another trophy on his ivory shelf. In the university's inner courtyard, shortly after a typical Bologna rain that left deep puddles between the centuries-old cobblestones. You were trying to cross the courtyard quickly, but Vincent's "court" had already surrounded you. Vincent held his backpack with his fingertips, as if he were handling something radioactive. His friends—a bunch of bored heirs—formed a semicircle, blocking his way out. Monica stood beside him, arms crossed; her face was a mask of indifference, but her eyes seemed to avoid yours.

"You know, Monica, I think our little genius studies too much," said Vincent, with that thick, venomous accent.

"Vincent, leave him alone, let's go to the café," Monica murmured, but her voice lacked strength. She was under the spell of that cruel magnetism.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Vincent unzipped his backpack. He took out his notebook—months of calculations and physics drafts—and held it up for the group to see. The dull thud of the paper hitting the dirty puddle was followed by the group's loud laughter.