Y/N

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I felt like I was running for eternity.

The back of my red dress trailed behind me as I ran, my suitcases thumping along the dizzy path. As soon as the train had stopped in Florence, I was already jumping out of the car and making my way to the ticket booth.

Which was naturally, on the other side of the station.

Weaving in and out of the crowd, I yelled out a string of apologies as I rolled over peoples feet, or nudged into them as I was trying to get by. I only had one thing on my mind, and not a lot of time to get there. As soon as I reached the booth, I came to a skidding stop, my breath heavy with exhaustion.

"I need a ticket," I panted, wiping sweat off of my forehead, "to Rome, please."

The man behind the stained glass stared at me in obvious confusion, and seemed to take forever typing the words into his keyboard. Tapping my sneakers against the tiled floor in anxiousness, I tried to distract myself from the snail-like pace the man was at, by looking around the room.

And...looking right at a giant clock.

2:35, it displayed a sickening number in the moment.

If it took over two hours for me to get here, it would take two hours to get back. It didn't seem so bad, considering the fact that I would arrive back around 5, and have two hours to spare before the art show.

"The only available tickets for Rome," the man croaked out, "are at seven and tomorrow at nine. Which one would you like?"

I widened my eyes, the only sound ringing in my ears being the beating of a panicking heart. Clutching my suitcase handle, I shook my head wildly with immense disappointment. In myself, and the fact that all the tickets I needed were sold out.

"None of those," I pleaded, "is there any other way I could get there?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but no other trains are running that line.

"Right..." I squeaked out, trying not to scream in anguish, "thank you."

Grabbing my things, I ran outside of the station, about to boil over with stress. It was my fault for leaving, and it would also be my fault if I couldn't make it back in time. Ignoring the glances I received from other pedestrians, my eyes frantically searched the street for anything that could take me to Rome.

"Taxi!" I yelled, rushing towards the line of yellow cabs, "mi scusi!"

Absentmindedly cutting the line of people waiting, I pulled open the car door and shoved my things inside. As soon as I slid into the seat, I snapped it shut behind me and tapped nervously on the back of the passenger seat.

"Roma, per favore," I urged, "I need to get there!"

The man in the front seat scoffed at the request, looking at me in the rear-view mirror as if I was crazy. Yes, I will admit the whole thing was definitely out of the ordinary, but I needed to get there.

Even if it meant sitting in a taxi for three hours and paying an expensive fare.

"Sei pazzo," he said, shaking his head, "you must be out of your mind!"

"Yes, I am very out of my mind, but I really need to get there!"

"No, I will not do it," he snapped, crossing his arms, "too far."

Out of purse desperation, I dug through my purse and grabbed my wallet, flipping it open and taking out a wad of euros. Sticking it out in front of me, I bit my lip in hope that he'd take pity on me; or take the money.

The man looked at the cash stuck in my hand, the bright colors seeming to attract his attention. Snatching it out of my hand, he shoved it in his pocket and put his hand on the wheel.

"Allacciare," he said, "it will be a long ride."

_

It was too long of a long ride.

Maybe I was slowly going insane at the Italian heavy metal playing from the radio, or the fact that I was stuck in a car with a stranger, who loved to talk about his wife and kids. The only thing I wanted to talk about, was my horrible life choices and inability to ever make the right decision.

Not about wanting to raise my grades, but by not telling Timothee in the first place. I was scared that he'd feel like I was trying to blame my failure on him, because in truth it was only my fault, and he shouldn't need to receive any guilt. But then the whole, Elena, thing came up and I was afraid.

I was afraid he was the same person he was back then, and in fear, I used his lie as an excuse to end things. I didn't care that he lied, if I was him, and I had changed for the better, I wouldn't want the past to come between someone I cared about.

But I let my own problems come between us.

Just by looking at him that day in the plaza, I could tell he had changed. Whoever the person he used to be was, I never knew him. I only knew the Timothee who would show me the city on the back of his bike, and try to impress me with his philosophical phrases. It was the Timothee I met on that train to Rome, who would talk about art as if it was some glorious creation from the heavens, and flip coins in the fountain of love.

It was Timothee. My Timothee.

"Stai scherzando!," the driver yelled, slamming his fist on the horn, "learn to drive!"

Leaning my head over the seat in front of me, I gazed at the pile up of cars in front of us. Muttering a curse under my breath, my stomach dropped at the sight of traffic. It was a chaotic street full of screaming people, and cars facing in every different direction.

It was like fate threw karma my way, and it managed to sock me in the jaw.

"How many miles to Rome?" I asked, my eyes fluttering around the messy scene before me.

"You're here," the driver said, "but nowhere near the Palazzo Corsini."

"What time is it?"

"Sera," he said, tapping on the digital clock beside him, "Six-fifty-three."

"Oh my god," I groaned, my hands dragging against my cheeks, "I'm not going to make it."

Falling back into my chair, I turned to look out the window. At first all I could see was my pathetic reflection, but then I saw it. The red vespa.

Well, not the red vespa. A, red vespa.

"Keep driving to the palazzo," I instructed, tossing another Euro into the front seat, "I'll meet you there."

Leaving the bewildered driver inside, and my luggage, I popped open the car door and scampered across the street, slipping through the stack of cars. What I was about to do next was incredibly immoral, but someway, somehow, I'd find a way to deal with the consequences in the future. As soon as I got to the show, first.

Grabbing the handles of the bike, I jumped onto the front of the leather seat, wobbling with instability. I had never actually, driven, one of these things before, and I definitely wasn't going to be able to magically figure it out.

"Hey!" I heard a woman shriek from a little way down the sidewalk, "allontanati dalla mia bici!"

So...I was stealing her bike. Technically, it was her fault she left the keys in, but we weren't going to talk about that at the moment. Kicking the engine pedal, as I remember Timothee doing every time he took me out, I felt the scooter start to run. The woman who the vespa belonged to, was also running, cursing at me to get off of her bike.

"Mi dispiace!" I exclaimed, turning onto the road, "I'll return it, I promise!"

That was not a very confident promise, but I said I'd figure it out later. Speeding down the cobblestone pavement, I let out a yell when I realized I still, in fact, did not know how to drive the vehicle. Weaving dangerously through cars, my palms started to shake as I steered myself in the right direction.

I had spent enough time in the city to know how to get to the Palazzo Corsini, but I was running out of time. My hair flung wildly behind me, smacking my in the face as I made my turns, and getting tangled in my arms as I drove.

It was a nightmare, and I had a stolen bike on my conscience.

If Timothee didn't forgive me, I would have no choice but to turn myself in to the police. Because at that point, they'd be the only people who wanted me. My eyes started to water with the air pressure, making it really hard to see where I was going.

I was starting to worry more about dying, then being late. Both options were horrible, but I desperately didn't want to experience either of those. Blazing down the passageways, I swerved through alleys and sidewalks until I finally reached the place I had been trying to find. Throwing myself off of the vespa, I clutched my purse and ran inside the building, searching for the place to go.

I saw a table at the end of the hallway, and scrambled over there, waving my ticket in hand.

"Mi scusi signore," I cried out, "what time is it?"

He looked up from his phone, confused on why I was shouting and sweaty. Taking the blue pass out of my grip, he looked it over, and nodded towards the oak doors to his right.

"The show started half an hour ago," he said, "turn off your cell phone as soon as you walk inside."

Fortunately, I didn't have to turn off my phone, because unfortunately, I left it inside the cab. Swinging open the doors, I rushed into the museum as fast as I could. A crowd of people stood lingering around a stage, their eyes glued to the presentation in front of them. A boy was standing on the stage, a bright spotlight illuminating him and the large canvas propped up on an easel beside him. I couldn't see what was underneath it, since it was covered with a white cloth, but that wasn't my main concern. He hadn't seen me run in, but a wave of relief passed over my body as I realized I hadn't come too late.

"And now," a man said into a microphone, "it is an honor to present this year's winner of the Raphaelites Honor Awards, Timothee Chalamet!"

A thunder of applause circled the room, as the boy nodded his head politely. Clapping my hands furiously, my heart swelled with pride at his success, and I had to keep myself from screaming out from the masses.

"Grazie," Timothee said, "I can't thank you enough."

I knew how much this award meant to him, yet his expression didn't seem to match his words. He looked sad, staring at the floor, his hands clamped together behind his back.

"Tell us about your entry," the man said, pointing at the hidden painting, "I know the judges were very impressed."

A few people wearing suits approached the easel, removing the cloth carefully, and carrying it off the stage. Murmurs of approval echoes through the audience, everyone admiring the masterpiece on display in front of them.

"I call it Diana In Her Likeness," Timothee said, his eyes brushing past the photo and back at the ground.

It was like he was too scared to look at it, or too ashamed to. Out of interest, I broke my gaze from the boy and turned to admire the painting. It was beautiful, a mix of colors meshing together in a vibrancy. It looked almost 3D, so realistic you could hold out your hand and touch it. But what caught me off guard most, was that it was of the statue of Diana, the one he took me too on the first day of school. It was almost being taken back into my memories, because every line seemed exactly how it was in real life.

Except for the face.

It may have been Diana's likeness, but the face resembled mine. It wasn't exact, but I could swear it was like looking into a mirror and seeing myself painted as a Roman goddess. I felt my cheeks flush red, and I turned back to look at the boy.

Who was already staring at me with his Olive-green eyes. 

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I'm so sad because there's only one more chapter left

On the bright-side, I'm 99% sure I'll write another Timothee book (not a sequel just another one). The other 1% depends on wether or not you guys want it :) lmk