>>212597779
To the Last Tattoo-less Man in Italy,

I won’t send this. You’ll never read it. But I need to write it—because at one point, your name alone made me giggle like a schoolgirl, and I owe that part of myself a proper goodbye.
When I rediscovered you in the spring of 2023, I was adrift. I was dealing with grief so intense. Then, like a ghost from the algorithm, you reappeared. Talking about dialects and so much more. A man I barely remembered from a decade-old video—then gaunt, awkward, forgettable. But this time, you looked different. Older. Handsomer. Strange. Real.
You called yourself rustic. No man today says that. Least of all on the internet. But you did—and I loved you for it. Not romantically, not at first. It was more like awe. Like discovering some relic from a museum that suddenly speaks.
You were older than me, still single, no children, no tattoos. Just that fact alone made you stand out like a cathedral among food trucks. I didn’t want to fall for you. I only wanted to admire you—your intellect, your passion for dialects, your stubborn sense of identity. But admiration is the kindling of something else. And soon, I found myself thinking about how to write you the perfect letter.
I sent it anonymously at first. It felt safer that way. I didn’t expect a response. I didn’t even expect you to read it. I only hoped that, somehow, my words might touch whatever human part of you still lived beneath all the proclamations about race and soil and banners I could never fully carry.
And then… you did respond. And worse—you noticed me. Complimented my beauty. Almost let me believe I could belong in your world. Almost.
But I’m not a Grand Lombard, am I?