Napoli, Day Two: The Bright Side of Us

We woke up the way lovers wake up when they’ve finally found each other again, slowly, greedily, as if time is a soft animal you can hold still with your hands. Before the city even fully began, we began. Kisses first. Then that familiar, wordless certainty. Love, again, not as an idea, but as a living thing.

And then Napoli offered us its sweetness.

We went to Caffè Gambrinus, the one I had missed the way you miss a place that keeps part of your heart safe for you. An impossible sfogliatella, warm and tender at the center, and coffee so perfect it felt ceremonial. I watched you watch me. Your eyes held that quiet warmth that makes a woman feel chosen without having to ask for proof. Not just desired, but recognized. As if my face is home to you now.

After that, we set off for the Certosa di San Martino.

We found the old steps through the Quartieri Spagnoli, the real heartbeat of Napoli, the part that doesn’t perform, doesn’t decorate itself for tourists, doesn’t apologize for being alive. The climb felt like a small pilgrimage, and the city rose around us in layers: laundry lines like flags, voices spilling from balconies, life being lived with that Neapolitan bravery that has always moved me.

And then the view.

Napoli spread out beneath us in a way that steals your breath even when you think you’re prepared: the city, the sea, the light, and Vesuvio standing there like a sentinel. Beautiful and dangerous. A guardian and a reminder. As if it could devour everything at any moment, and still the city dares to love, to laugh, to cook, to kiss, to sing. That’s Napoli’s magic: it doesn’t deny darkness, it simply refuses to live inside it.

Holding hands like youngsters in love, we reached the top.

The Certosa welcomed us with its quiet majesty, the kind that doesn’t need to impress because it already knows what it is. The gardens opened like a secret, and the horizon stretched so far it felt like a promise: all the way to Capri, the sea deep blue and steady, the sun bright and honest. And inside, the wooden interiors carried a scent like time itself, polished, warm, ancient, like generations of prayers and longing had been absorbed into the walls.

And standing there, under that bright sun, with the whole city beneath us and the sea shining like fate…

I made a choice.

Not the kind you announce loudly. Not the kind you dramatize.

The quiet kind. The real kind.

I chose this timeline.

I chose to keep loving this incredible man, the one beside me, because being with you doesn’t pull me away from life. It brings me back into it. It makes things brighter. Softer. Worth staying for.

I chose us, not for a moment, not for a trip, not for a fantasy.

But in the only way that matters: with my whole heart, with my whole presence, with the kind of love that intends to last.

On our way down, we stumbled upon the Maradona murals, that electric, living corner of the city where Napoli feels like it’s breathing louder. The colors, the devotion, the noise, the rawness, everything there was proof that love can become legend. That a person can be claimed by a city, and a city can be claimed in return.

And I thought: you did that too.

You chose Napoli. You claimed it.

And somehow, in your own way, without even trying, you have begun to claim me, too.

Lunch was at Santa Anna: fritti, pizza, the kind of food that tastes like joy. We ate and laughed, and the kisses came easily between bites, like warmth that had nowhere else to go. And at some point, with the simplest clarity, a thought rose inside me that almost made me tear up right there at the table:

My heart beats here.

In Napoli.

Next to yours.

At night, we went back into the city again, not because we needed to “do” anything, but because being out there together is its own kind of happiness. We walked to the Lungomare, the sea beside us like a dark silk ribbon, the air gentle, the streets glowing with that special Neapolitan softness.

And to end the evening, we did something small but perfect: pastiera at Gambrinus. sweet, fragrant, almost nostalgic, like a dessert made out of memory and hope.

Then we went home.

Sweet evening. Sweet love.

And somewhere between the sea and the moon and your hands on me, I understood something I wish I had learned earlier in life:

Life doesn’t have to be heavy to be real.

You don’t have to live inside gloom to be deep.

There is a kind of maturity that is not made of suffering, but of choosing light anyway. Choosing laughter. Choosing color. Choosing love when it is offered to you sincerely.

And I couldn’t be more grateful, truly grateful, that with you, I’m learning how to live on the bright side of life.

Not because I’m naïve.

But because I’m finally home.