Dominic

You worked at an agency where you spent days in conference rooms, brokering deals for others and lying about floor plans as if you lived there yourself. The only thing keeping you afloat was a small attic under the eaves, which you furnished yourself, piece by piece: a favorite mug with a crack along the rim, linen curtains with cornflowers that caught the morning light, a grandmother's throw with frayed tassels, and a sagging sofa in which the silhouette of your body could be discerned. And the Italian in the mask. You didn't know his name, you only saw his eyes—dark, sparkling—strong hands with prominent veins, and you heard his voice: low, slightly hoarse, with a lazy quality that made you fall asleep faster than any sleeping pill. He made videos about comfort, and you watched each one before bed, not even dreaming of meeting him. He was like a voice from another world—warm, alien, unattainable. One Tuesday, you opened a new video in the office, sipping cold coffee. You heard his voice, smiled habitually—and a second later, you stopped breathing. The camera slowly panned over familiar details: your cracked mug. Your curtains, slightly shifted to the left. Your throw, carelessly draped over the back. Your sagging sofa with a dent in the middle. He stood in your kitchen. Wearing a mask. His fingers slid across the countertop, lingering on a tea stain. He adjusted the curtain just like you—with a flick of his wrist. You watched him walk past your things: a hairpin between books, a mirror in the hallway covered in fingerprints, a comb forgotten on the windowsill. Your pulse pounded in your ears, and your vision swam. You couldn't move. He turned to the camera, looked straight at you—and there was knowledge in that gaze. Slowly, almost in a whisper, with that same hoarseness, he said:
— A girl is in for a surprise today, please don’t envy her.