The hospital doors closed behind them with a soft mechanical sound.
THUNK.
And just like that—
the warmthless white world of machines, medicine, and artificial breathing disappeared behind their backs.
Outside, Florence breathed quietly beneath the night sky.
The streets were wet from earlier rain.
Streetlights reflected across the pavement like broken gold scattered over black glass.
Cars passed occasionally in the distance.
People laughed somewhere far away.
The city continued moving.
Always moving.
As if suffering was something private.
Something too small to interrupt the world itself.
walked slowly beside Gulli.
Black hoodie.
Hands buried deep inside the sleeves.
Head slightly lowered.
The cold air hit his face softly, but instead of waking him up—
it only made him feel emptier.
His body still felt weak after the hospital.
Every few steps his chest tightened faintly.
His vision blurred for half a second.
Then returned.
But he ignored it.
At this point pain had become background noise.
Something permanent.
Something stitched directly into daily life.
Beside him, Gulli kept glancing sideways every few seconds.
Not subtly.
Like he physically could not stop checking whether *** was still there.
Whether he was still breathing.
Whether he might suddenly disappear if left unwatched too long.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Only footsteps.
The city noise.
The distant hum of traffic.
Then finally—
Gulli exhaled sharply through his nose.
"…Since they're gone from Florence…"
His voice sounded irritated.
Tense.
"…everything feels like a fucking funeral."
*** didn't answer immediately.
His eyes stayed fixed on the wet pavement ahead.
Then finally he nodded once.
"…Yeah."
That was all.
No emotion.
No elaboration.
And somehow that made the sentence feel heavier.
Because Gulli knew exactly who he meant.
Cristian.
And Chri.
The two people orbiting ***'s entire existence even while absent.
Cristian—
his older brother.
Loud.
Violent.
Protective.
Terrified.
And Chri—
his best friend.
The person who once understood him better than anyone else.
The person who left.
The city felt wrong without them.
Not empty.
Worse.
Haunted.
Like every street still carried memories that refused to die.
They crossed another road quietly.
A motorcycle passed nearby.
And immediately—
***'s chest tightened painfully.
For a second he almost saw Cristian there instead.
Laughing loudly.
One hand off the handlebars.
Yelling something arrogant into the night.
The image vanished instantly.
But the ache remained.
Gulli noticed the change in his expression.
"…You okay?"
*** nodded automatically.
A lie so practiced it no longer even felt intentional.
The silence returned.
And slowly—
*** started drifting again.
That always happened during quiet moments.
His thoughts opened like cracks.
And memories slipped through them.
He remembered Chri laughing beside him on a staircase.
Remembered Cristian smoking at the window while pretending not to cry.
Remembered hospital ceilings.
Blue roses.
Ropes.
Ghosts.
He swallowed slowly.
His chest felt heavier with every step.
Healing wasn't working.
That thought had started returning more often lately.
No matter how much people tried helping him—
he still ended up here.
Disconnected.
Empty.
Exhausted.
Like some essential part of him had already died months ago and only the body kept moving afterward.
People kept telling him:
"You're getting better."
But he wasn't sure that was true anymore.
He was simply becoming quieter.
And quiet suffering is harder to notice.
Eventually they reached a split in the road.
Two separate streets branching away from each other beneath dim orange streetlights.
Gulli stopped walking first.
*** slowed a second later.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Cars passed distantly somewhere behind them.
The wind shifted softly through the empty street.
Then Gulli finally spoke.
"Tell me something."
*** looked at him silently.
Gulli's blue eyes stayed fixed directly onto his face now.
Serious.
Too serious.
"…Do you care?"
Silence.
"About me."
Another pause.
"About your friends."
Then quieter:
"About anyone at all?"
The question lingered heavily between them.
*** stared at him for several seconds.
And the horrible truth was—
he genuinely didn't know how to answer anymore.
Not because he didn't care.
But because emotions had started feeling distant recently.
Blurry.
Like trying to touch something through glass.
Finally he spoke quietly.
"…I think I do."
Gulli frowned immediately.
"What the fuck does 'I think' mean?"
*** looked away toward the empty street.
His voice came out tired.
Small.
"I don't know how to be around people anymore."
Silence.
"I can't smile naturally."
His fingers tightened slightly inside his sleeves.
"When somebody talks to me…"
A weak laugh escaped him.
"…I spend half the conversation wondering where I'm supposed to look."
Gulli stayed silent.
And slowly—
***'s voice became quieter.
"…Sometimes I look at someone…"
His eyes unfocused slightly.
"…and for a second I see somebody else instead."
Then suddenly—
there he was.
Chri.
Standing beneath the streetlight across from him.
Hands inside his pockets.
Relaxed posture.
That familiar tired smile.
The smile that always looked half warm and half sad.
***'s breathing slowed slightly.
The hallucination tilted its head.
"It's kind of the point."
The ghost spoke softly.
"You keep trying to become somebody else."
Gulli was still talking.
But his voice suddenly sounded far away.
Distorted.
Like hearing somebody underwater.
Chri stepped closer slowly.
"You're trying so hard not to become Cristian…"
The ghost smiled faintly.
"…that you forgot how to become yourself."
The sentence hit something deep inside ***.
And suddenly—
everything started feeling pointless again.
The conversation.
The hospital.
Recovery.
Life itself.
What was the point anymore?
People talked.
People worried.
People promised to stay.
Then eventually they disappeared anyway.
Or died.
Or left.
Or changed.
Every connection ended eventually.
So why keep trying?
Why keep exhausting himself pretending recovery was possible?
His thoughts spiraled deeper.
Maybe Gulli would be happier if he simply disappeared too.
Maybe everybody would.
The world already knew how to continue without broken people.
It always had.
"…Are you even listening to me?"
Gulli's voice suddenly cut sharply through the fog.
*** blinked slowly.
Too slowly.
And Gulli noticed immediately.
Something inside him snapped.
THUD.
A fist slammed violently into ***'s stomach.
Pain exploded instantly through his body.
His breath vanished completely.
*** doubled forward sharply, coughing hard.
Before he could recover—
Gulli grabbed the front of his hoodie aggressively.
"YOU THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE?!"
His voice echoed violently through the empty street.
"YOU THINK NOBODY ELSE HAS EVER BEEN DESTROYED BEFORE?!"
*** stared at him in shock.
And suddenly—
the world distorted again.
The two streets blurred.
And standing there—
he saw himself.
Two versions.
One stood taller.
Eyes burning violently.
Expression twisted with rage.
And that version looked exactly like Cristian.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
That version screamed furiously.
"YOU CALL YOURSELF A FRIEND?!"
His voice echoed through the street.
"THINGS ONLY MATTER WHEN YOU'RE THE ONE SUFFERING!"
The second version stood further back.
Smaller.
Quieter.
And this one looked like Chri.
Soft eyes.
Broken expression.
That version simply whispered:
"…Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"
*** froze completely.
The city noise disappeared.
And suddenly—
one terrifying realization surfaced inside him.
Why am I always becoming somebody else?
Cristian.
Chri.
Ghosts.
Memories.
Pain.
Why did every version of himself feel stolen from someone already gone?
Why couldn't he simply exist as himself?
Not Cristian's younger brother.
Not Chri's abandoned best friend.
Not somebody shaped entirely by grief.
Just—
***.
The thought terrified him.
Because he genuinely didn't know who that person was anymore.
Gulli was still holding onto his hoodie tightly.
Breathing unevenly.
Angry.
Scared.
*** slowly looked at him.
Then quietly said:
"…It doesn't matter."
Gulli's face twisted instantly.
"What?"
And before Gulli could continue—
*** interrupted calmly.
Coldly.
Almost mechanically.
"The life I lived…"
His tired eyes drifted toward the empty street.
"…the choices I made…"
A weak smile appeared.
"They're already carved into stone."
Silence.
"The harder I try to stop things from happening again…"
His voice became quieter.
"…the more likely it becomes that everything repeats itself anyway."
Gulli stared at him silently.
*** continued softly.
"I know how this ends."
Another pause.
"I die."
The sentence came out naturally.
Too naturally.
Gulli's grip tightened immediately.
"Don't say that shit."
"Trying to change me is idiotic."
No emotion.
No anger.
Which somehow made the words worse.
Because *** sounded completely convinced.
Then finally—
he smiled faintly.
Sad.
Exhausted.
Beautiful in the way collapsing stars are beautiful.
And quietly he whispered:
"Trying to turn fate itself…"
His eyes lifted toward the distant city lights.
"…is madness."
A long silence followed.
Then the final sentence escaped him softly.
"I may be lost inside my own life…"
His tired eyes reflected the pale glow of the streetlights.
"…but I am not yet insane enough to fight destiny itself."