But will you? Almost certainly not.

Then comes the "Aftermath," which follows three predictable phases:

Here’s to the Italian who couldn't pronounce your name. Here’s to the sunrise train station goodbye. Here’s to the texts you never sent. And here’s to the summer you were gloriously, recklessly, romantically drunk.

Do not try to turn a summer romance into a winter mortgage. Let it be what it is: a beautiful, tragic, glittering bubble.

Before you get on the plane, look them in the eye and say, "This has been amazing. I will probably never see you again. So let’s be perfect for the next 24 hours." It hurts less than "I'll call you tomorrow." Epilogue: The Souvenir You will likely not marry the drunk Australian from the hostel. You will not move to Berlin for the bartender. But you will carry the storyline with you.

By Isabella Rossi

Years later, a specific song comes on (likely "Heat Waves" by Glass Animals or "We Are Young" by Fun.). You smell coconut sunscreen or cheap lager. You smile. Not because you miss them , but because you miss the version of yourself who was brave enough to get drunk and fall in love with a stranger under a foreign sky. Part IV: How to Write Your Own (Without Ruining Your Life) If you are about to embark on a summer abroad, or if you are currently in the thick of a tipsy romance by the Trevi Fountain, here is the narrative advice:

You return to your dorm room or your parents' basement. You scroll through 4,000 photos. You send a text: "I miss the sea." They reply: "The air is cold here." You FaceTime once. The lag ruins the magic.