"Dante Romano" | Love Musings

When I was twenty‑five, I landed a thirty‑day job as a messenger at the U.S. Supreme Court on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. Most of the messengers were undergraduate law interns, and then there was me, the odd peg with only a high school education. On my first day, Dante Romano, a sharp‑eyed Italian law student, introduced himself. From that moment, we became friends, exchanging emails and phone numbers.
 
Lunches turned into after‑work drinks at a political bar just a few blocks from the Court. As our friendship deepened, I grew fond of him.
 
This is the story of how Dante, and the feelings he stirred, quietly shaped my emotional intelligence and wove themselves into a connection that lived only in my heart, an unrequited love.
 
Over time, Dante’s personality unfolded: gentle nature, irresistible humor, striking intelligence, and a voice that moved like silk.
 
Then one afternoon over lunch, Dante received a text. After reading it, he erupted—fiery, passionate, unapologetic. Somehow, even his frustration was magnetic. There’s something about a man with an edge.
 
Dante was Catholic, unlike the men in my neighborhood who talked endlessly about physical things. Yet Dante never crossed that line, not in emails, not on the phone, not when we were alone. His restraint fascinated me.
 
One day, I was argumentative, defiant over a disagreement. His response stunned me. Instead of matching my fire, he paused. Thoughtfully. Then spoke with patience, calm, and unwavering grace.
 
I had never encountered a man who met resistance with gentleness. The men in my world barked back when challenged. But Dante was different. And I realized I cared for him.
 
Then one day at work, I overheard him talking about a woman he loved. It stung. I lashed out, sharp and unkind. Regret hit instantly.
 
I knew he was hurt. I felt it in the silence that followed.
 
That night, I emailed him, no reply. I called, no answer. My stomach twisted. He had always responded.
 
Hours later, his message finally arrived, but the ache remained. I asked to hear his voice, bracing myself for the familiar rush of his melodic Italian tone. When we spoke, I apologized, full of remorse.
 
Dante was unlike any man I had known, sensitive, openly emotional, yet strong. In my world, men guarded their feelings like armor. But Dante allowed me to see his softness.
 
I never mistreated him again.
 
Yet I resented that he belonged to someone else. I wanted him to love me.
 
One night, curiosity overcame me, and I asked Dante if he had ever dated a light‑skinned Black woman. His answer was simple, steady, and sincere:
 
“I don’t look at a person’s skin. People are people.”
 
At home late at night, I replayed every moment we had shared, his accent, his reverence for God, his patience, his kindness, his temper, his sensitivity, his intelligence.
 
I was in love with him, I think.
A love untouched by physical desire, a rare kind, unclouded by intimacy.
It is possible to love someone without crossing that line.
 
It was a Friday night. I lounged in my apartment, sipping dry white wine, dressed in lingerie and high heels, thinking about Dante.
 
Wine lends courage. Liquid confidence urged me to confess my feelings, so I emailed him. He never replied.
 
To soothe my frustration, I turned to music, songs that echoed longing, hope, illusion, and heartbreak.
 
Not specific tracks, but the kind of melodies that make you believe in a love that isn’t yours to have.
 
There were songs about wanting a glamorous life.
Songs about craving connection.
Songs about wishing for someone to see your worth.
Songs about hope, desire, fantasy, and the ache of unreturned affection.
Songs that made me believe in magic one moment and reality the next.
 
Those melodies carried me through the night.
 
There, I’ve said it.
In my young adulthood, I met Dante Romano and romanticized him.
I drank wine, I drowned in music, and I pined after a love that was never meant to be.
 
We always want the ones we can’t have.
 
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(Copyright © 2026 by Mia Z. Edwards. All rights reserved.)