< Writing


Sandwich Queen

The first night I met S, he was covered in blood.

When I got accepted to the study abroad program in Rome one month later, I was already looking forward to the space.

The next day, he tells me he also applied. “I want to be together.”, he says. Eyes wide, staring, piercing, convincing. “Me too.”, I say.

We live together in Trastevere. I don’t make any friends at school. I don’t recognize myself enough to be introduced. To say my own name. To say “I am...” anything.

We stay up all night. Peronis turning stale in our mouths. We don’t touch.

At 3am slumped on Trastevere bridge, “You know it’s okay that you’re gay.”, I say. “You too.”, he replies, eyes closed.

Another night in our shared bedroom. It’s been six weeks. “I’ll never marry you.”, he barks. 

We finally touch. I tell everyone I tripped.

I wish someone could see what happened. But all anyone sees is an image of me on his Instagram holding a sandwich I made him with the caption, Sandwich Queen.