Dear Lucius Aelius, 

I tried calling you last night, but it rang and rang. I get that yur with your family this week and don’t like to talk with Avidia hovering around, so I’ve decided to write you instead (do you even recognize my handwriting?!). What I want to tell you, Lucky, is that I really hate how we ended things. I know you were drunk and just trying to be funny, flirting with that boy from Judea, kissing him behind the ear (and yeah, I noticed you two now follow each other on IG, which I’m trying to be cool with). But remember that day you took me up to the Temple of Venus, and lying on the warm marble, I told you that I could handle heartbreak at the distance of a rumor or a confession—a fling with that Greek charioteer who I can’t stand, fine, a hookup with one of your powdered servants while you were away in Samothrace, whatever, a blow job from the guy who fixed your earbuds, gross but okay—but witnessing your dalliances with my own eyes, watching you play with another guy when I’m here to be taken, it hurts too much to bear. Jesus, Lucky, I’m not Avidia. I don’t gain from being tied to you whether you sleep with me or not. Listen, I’ve decided to go to Carthage with my father to beat the heads of our Phoenician wind energy suppliers, and you’re off on that waste-of-time imperial Nile tour. Let’s meet and discuss when we’re both back in Urbs. The Oracle says the Tiber will only run for two more years. The pines along the hills are turning pink in the heat. This morning I found two dead moths in my bed, and I don’t want to know the bad omen that spells. Please don’t forget me in the throngs of beautiful boys in Alexandria. Send me a DM or two from the boat. I’m fighting to keep you, Lucius, if you still care. Otherwise, I guess I’ll see you around. 

  Yours 4ever,  Titus