𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝔂𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓫𝓮𝓽𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓾𝓼.
…In which you move to America from Italy as a foreign exchange student for one year. And though you don’t have the words to say it yet, you know you feel something for your host family’s son, Matt.
Warnings: None!
The first chapter of my series, hope you enjoy!!
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You press your forehead to the airplane window, the cool glass grounding you as the clouds drift apart below. You’ve been in the sky for almost ten hours, and still, it hasn’t sunk in. You’ve left Italy. Florence. Home.
The city coming into view doesn’t look like anything you’ve ever seen before. No red-tiled roofs or narrow alleyways. No old stone churches or Vespa-lined sidewalks. Just rows of square houses and fat roads and cars the size of boats. You feel small—smaller than ever.
Your seatbelt tightens as the plane descends. When the wheels hit the ground, a jolt runs through your body, but it’s not the plane—it’s the fear. The knowing. This is real now.
You’re really here. Alone.
In the airport, the signs are all in English, and you move slowly, reading each one twice. Baggage claim. Exit. Welcome. Everything feels loud and fast and shiny. You almost miss the cardboard sign with your name on it, held by a woman with a wide smile and short blonde hair.
“There she is!” she says, her voice warm and chirpy like a morning radio host. “You must be y/n I’m Marylou—your host mom!”
You nod quickly. “Hello. Yes. I’m… me.” You cringe a little. It sounded smoother in your head.
She laughs like she doesn’t notice. “This is my husband, Jimmy,” she says, as the man beside her gives you a gentle wave. “And that over there”—she turns—“is our son, Matt.”
Matt is leaning against a pillar, headphones half hanging out of his hoodie pocket. His dark brown hair flops just a little over his forehead. He looks up when Diane says his name, then meets your eyes. Just for a second. “Hey,” he says.
His voice is deeper than you expected.
You manage a shy, “Hi,” back. Then he looks away.
The car ride is long. Diane talks almost the entire time, telling you about the school, about the town, about how excited they are to have you here. You try to respond when you understand, but most of the time you just nod, smiling politely. You catch maybe every third word. Matt doesn’t say much at all from the back seat, but you can feel him looking at you once or twice in the rearview mirror.
Their house is bigger than you imagined. Two stories, with white shutters and a porch swing. Inside, it smells like clean laundry and cinnamon. A dog barks from somewhere upstairs.
They show you your room. It’s painted a soft blue with a twin bed, a desk by the window, and a little bookshelf with some paperbacks already stacked. There’s a note on the desk in neat handwriting: Welcome to your home for the year!
You say thank you more times than you can count. They’re kind. Warmer than you expected. Still, you feel like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.
Dinner is burgers and fries. You’ve seen them in movies, but this is your first time eating one. It’s a little messy, but the taste surprises you. Greasy, salty, good.
Matt sits across from you, mostly quiet, answering his mom with short responses and chewing slowly. You can’t tell if he’s shy or if he just doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t look at you much, but when he does, it’s quick, almost like he’s trying not to.
After dinner, you retreat to your room. The sun is setting out your window, painting the sky pink and orange. It’s beautiful in a different way—big and wide and open.
You sit down at your desk and open your journal. Your pen moves instinctively in Italian.
“Oggi ho lasciato casa. Tutto è nuovo. Tutto è grande. Non capisco molto. Ma mi sento… viva. Spaventata, ma viva.”
Today I left home. Everything is new. Everything is big. I don’t understand much. But I feel… alive. Scared, but alive.
You pause before adding one last line.
“Il ragazzo, Matt. Sembra tranquillo. Ma mi ha guardata come se… mi vedesse davvero.”
The boy, Matt. He seems quiet. But he looked at me like… he really saw me.
You close the journal softly.
Later that night, while brushing your teeth in the upstairs bathroom, you hear music. Soft and low, not from a phone or speaker—but real. Guitar. Just a few chords, strummed slow and a little clumsy, like someone figuring out the rhythm.
You tiptoe back to your room, press your ear to the wall. It’s coming from the room next door. Matt’s.
You sit on your bed, listening.
You don’t know the song. You don’t understand the words he starts humming under his breath.
Not yet.
But one day, you will.
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A/N
Sorry this chapter is so short but I thought of this idea because of a TikTok and I NEEDED to write it so here we are, idk how many chapter this is going to be but I’m excited for this to be my first book
(Not proofread so sorry for misspelling)
