The laughter disappeared slowly.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
It faded the same way old songs fade from memory —
piece by piece,
until all that remains is the feeling they left behind.
First Giacomo vanished.
Then the warmth inside the hospital room.
Then the white ceiling dissolved into darkness.
The steady beep flattened into silence.
The smell of antiseptic disappeared.
And finally—
Cristian disappeared too.
Not the real Cristian.
Just the memory of him.
The smiling version.
The broken version.
The version holding blue roses while pretending death didn't scare him.
And then reality returned quietly.
Cruelly.
Like cold water slowly filling someone's lungs.
Cri's eyes opened.
For several seconds he didn't move at all.
The room around him was dark except for the pale blue glow leaking through the curtains from outside. The city lights painted weak reflections across the walls.
Everything felt distant.
Even his own body.
His chest rose slowly.
Then fell again.
Breathing felt manual tonight.
Like something he had to consciously remember how to do.
The dream still clung to him violently.
Cristian sitting in that hospital bed.
Cristian staring at blue roses.
Cristian laughing softly while holding a scalpel.
"…Don't cry for me."
The sentence echoed again.
Again.
Again.
Cri shut his eyes tightly for a moment.
His stomach twisted painfully.
Every memory of Cristian hurt differently now.
At first grief had felt sharp.
Violent.
Like being stabbed repeatedly by the same memory over and over.
But now—
now grief felt rotten.
Heavy.
Internal.
Like carrying a dead body inside his chest that nobody else could see.
Slowly his gaze drifted toward the small table beside the bed.
A glass of water.
Medication.
And beside it—
The roses.
Blue.
Artificially dyed.
Beautiful in a way that felt wrong.
Cri stared at them silently.
Something about them made his chest ache.
Maybe because they reminded him too much of Cristian himself.
A thing that should not have existed the way it did.
A beautiful mistake.
A wounded thing trying desperately to become something worthy of love.
The room remained silent.
Then suddenly—
Cri laughed quietly.
The sound startled even him.
It sounded exhausted.
Not happy.
Not amused.
Just… empty.
"…Why?"
His voice barely existed.
He rubbed one trembling hand across his face.
"If Cristian really was a monster…"
His eyes stayed locked onto the flowers.
"…why do I still feel sorry for him?"
Silence answered immediately.
Of course it did.
Silence had become the only thing truly loyal in his life.
Cri leaned back slowly against the chair behind him.
His thoughts moved sluggishly.
Like they were dragging themselves through mud.
He remembered everything at once now.
Cristian screaming.
Cristian laughing.
Cristian crying on the floor while holding him desperately.
Cristian acting invincible while secretly terrified of being unloved.
And underneath every memory—
fear.
Always fear.
That was the worst realization.
Not anger.
Not violence.
Fear.
Cristian had been scared his entire life.
Scared of abandonment.
Scared of intimacy.
Scared of weakness.
Scared of becoming insignificant.
So he learned to bark louder than everyone else.
Learned to hurt before being hurt.
Learned to become dangerous so nobody would notice how fragile he actually was underneath.
Cri swallowed slowly.
"…You were just scared."
The sentence hurt him physically.
His fingers tightened weakly against the blanket.
"…Just a scared kid pretending to be a wolf."
And suddenly another memory surfaced.
Cristian on the bedroom floor years ago.
Crying.
Clinging to him.
Whispering:
"I just want somebody to love me."
Cri lowered his head.
His breathing became uneven.
Because even now—
even after everything—
he still loved him.
And loving someone who destroyed themselves feels horrible.
It feels like betrayal.
Like weakness.
Like mourning a fire after it already burned your entire house down.
His jaw tightened.
"…I hate you."
But immediately afterward—
his chest hurt again.
Because the sentence still felt incomplete.
He hated what Cristian became.
Not what he was.
And those two things were impossible to separate anymore.
His eyes returned to the roses.
Blue roses.
Flowers that don't naturally exist.
Flowers forced into becoming something unnatural.
Something impossible.
Something wrong.
Yet somehow—
still beautiful.
Cri suddenly understood why Cristian loved them.
Because Cristian saw himself inside them.
Something broken trying desperately to become worthy of being admired.
Something unnatural begging to still be loved.
Cri stood slowly from the bed.
His body felt weak immediately.
The room tilted slightly before stabilizing again.
His illness always worsened at night.
Or maybe his thoughts did.
At this point he couldn't tell the difference anymore.
He walked toward the window quietly.
Outside, the city stretched endlessly beneath the dark sky.
Thousands of tiny lights flickered below.
Apartments.
Cars.
Restaurants.
People continued existing so naturally.
That had always fascinated him.
How easy other people made life look.
Meanwhile every single action for him now felt exhausting.
Waking up exhausted him.
Eating exhausted him.
Speaking exhausted him.
Even pretending to be okay exhausted him.
And healing—
healing was the most exhausting thing of all.
People always talk about recovery like it's beautiful.
Like some poetic journey toward becoming whole again.
But nobody talks about how humiliating it actually feels.
How terrifying it is to realize you no longer recognize yourself.
How exhausting it becomes trying to rebuild an identity after years spent surviving instead of living.
Some mornings Cri woke up genuinely wanting to improve.
Some mornings he thought:
Maybe I can become normal again.
And other mornings—
he woke up angry he survived another night.
Both feelings existed together now.
That terrified him.
Because it meant he no longer trusted his own mind.
He rested his forehead lightly against the cold glass.
And then the thought came back again.
Quietly.
Naturally.
If I died…
His eyes lowered toward the distant streetlights below.
…would everyone finally relax?
The sentence didn't sound emotional anymore.
That was the scariest part.
Suicidal thoughts had stopped feeling dramatic.
Now they felt practical.
Routine.
Like checking whether it might rain tomorrow.
Maybe his mother would finally stop feeling embarrassed by him.
Maybe people would stop worrying.
Maybe nobody would need to waste energy trying to fix him anymore.
Maybe the world genuinely functioned better without people like him inside it.
His chest tightened painfully.
And beneath all those thoughts—
another truth existed too.
He was tired.
Not sleepy.
Existentially tired.
Tired of carrying memories.
Tired of surviving himself.
Tired of feeling disconnected from reality.
Tired of feeling guilty for still being alive when Cristian wasn't.
Tired of trying to become someone worth saving.
Because deep down—
some part of him still believed he was fundamentally wrong.
Broken at the core.
Unfixable.
His eyes shut tightly.
If I died…
maybe I'd finally stop disappointing everyone.
Then—
"Just make sure you don't throw yourself down."
The voice behind him shattered the thought instantly.
Cri froze.
His heart skipped painfully.
Slowly—
he turned around.
And saw him.
Gulli.
Tall.
Thin.
Buzzcut.
Bright blue eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
A loose hoodie hanging off his frame carelessly.
And a smile.
But tonight the smile looked unstable.
Forced.
Like it was barely holding something uglier underneath.
For several seconds neither of them spoke.
Gulli stood near the doorway staring directly at him.
Not casually.
Intensely.
Like he had spent the entire walk here imagining finding a corpse instead of a person.
Cri frowned slightly.
"…Why did you come all the way here?"
His voice sounded rough from exhaustion.
Then quieter:
"…Were you scared that I'd—"
"You know," Gulli interrupted immediately, "when someone tells me you passed out because of your illness…"
He slowly walked into the room.
"…and THEN I hear you tried hanging yourself earlier…"
A dry laugh escaped him.
"…yeah, I start getting a little fucking concerned."
Cri looked away first.
"…Thanks."
Cold.
Automatic.
Emotionless.
Gulli stared at him for a second.
Then scoffed suddenly.
"Don't thank me."
He dropped heavily onto the bed.
"You make me feel insane."
Cri blinked slightly.
Gulli leaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees.
"I'm serious."
His voice sharpened.
"You disappear mentally every five seconds."
He pointed toward Cri aggressively.
"You stare at people like you're trying to remember if they're real."
Another pause.
"And every single time someone leaves you alone…"
His jaw tightened visibly.
"…I start wondering if you're gonna kill yourself before they come back."
Silence.
Cri lowered his gaze quietly.
"…I understand."
And somehow that answer made Gulli look even more irritated.
"See THAT."
He pointed at him immediately.
"That calm acceptance bullshit."
Gulli laughed once.
Short.
Unstable.
"You talk about dying like you're discussing homework."
His eyes stayed fixed on Cri now.
Too focused.
Too intense.
"And the worst part is…"
His voice lowered slightly.
"…I don't think you understand how terrifying you've become."
That sentence landed deeply.
Because part of Cri genuinely didn't realize anymore.
This state had become normal.
The dissociation.
The numbness.
The suicidal thoughts.
The drifting.
The emptiness.
He had adapted to his own deterioration.
And adaptation is dangerous.
Cri slowly sat beside him.
Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
"…I'm trying."
The confession came out weakly.
Embarrassed.
Small.
Gulli immediately looked at him.
And for the first time since entering—
his expression softened slightly.
Cri stared downward.
"I just…"
His fingers trembled faintly.
"…don't know how to come back anymore."
Silence filled the room again.
Then suddenly Gulli grabbed the sleeve of Cri's hoodie tightly.
Hard.
Desperate.
Not affectionate.
Grounding.
Like physically holding onto someone standing near the edge of a building.
"Well figure it out."
His voice cracked slightly.
"Because I'm getting really fucking tired of being scared every time you stop answering messages."
Cri stared at him quietly.
And suddenly he noticed it.
Gulli looked exhausted too.
His eyes had dark circles underneath them.
His leg bounced restlessly.
His breathing looked uneven.
He looked like someone surviving constant anxiety.
Like somebody permanently bracing for disaster.
Gulli rubbed harshly at his own face with one hand.
"You know what the worst part is?"
He laughed weakly.
"I can't even tell when you're joking anymore."
Cri frowned slightly.
Gulli continued.
"When you say suicidal shit you say it so calmly that I genuinely don't know whether I should panic or not."
Another laugh escaped him.
More broken this time.
"Do you understand how fucked that is?"
Silence.
Then quieter:
"You scare me, Cri."
The honesty in his voice hurt.
Because Gulli wasn't exaggerating.
He was genuinely afraid.
Not of Cri hurting him.
Afraid of losing him.
And suddenly—
for the first time—
Cri realized people were beginning to fear his death the same way they once feared Cristian's self-destruction.
The realization made his chest ache violently.
Gulli suddenly stood up again like sitting still physically irritated him.
He shoved both hands into his pockets.
"…Anyway."
A shaky breath escaped him.
"You wanna get dressed and go for a walk?"
Cri blinked once.
Gulli shrugged awkwardly.
"This room feels like a fucking suicide note."
Then quieter:
"And if I leave you alone too long I'm probably gonna imagine horrible shit happened."
The honesty of the sentence hurt again.
Because he didn't even try hiding it.
He was terrified.
Cri looked at him silently.
And slowly—
something moved inside his chest.
Tiny.
Fragile.
Human.
Not happiness.
Not hope.
Just warmth.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward slightly.
And Gulli noticed instantly.
"There."
He pointed immediately.
"That."
Cri looked confused.
"You looked alive for like half a second."
Silence.
Then quietly—
for the first time all night—
Cri almost believed it too.