The city had gone quiet again after *** spoke.
Not truly silent.
Florence never became truly silent.
Somewhere distant:
cars still moved,
people still laughed,
music still leaked faintly from apartments above the streets.
But around them—
the world felt paused.
Suspended.
Like the conversation itself had pulled them outside normal time.
Gulli's fist was still gripping the front of ***'s hoodie tightly.
His breathing uneven.
His blue eyes burning with anger.
Fear.
Exhaustion.
And something uglier underneath all of it.
Meanwhile *** simply stood there.
Still.
Expression unreadable.
The cold air moved softly through his dark hair.
For a few seconds neither of them spoke.
Then slowly—
something shifted inside ***.
A strange feeling.
Not anger exactly.
Something colder.
The realization that maybe—
just maybe—
he had allowed himself to become too small in this conversation.
Too passive.
Too apologetic.
And suddenly his chest tightened faintly.
Because somewhere deep inside himself—
he felt misunderstood again.
The same old feeling.
The same unbearable distance between himself and everybody else.
Gulli thought he understood him.
But he didn't.
Nobody really did.
Slowly—
*** lifted his gaze toward him.
And quietly said:
"…And who are you to tell me what to do?"
The sentence hit harder than shouting would have.
Because of how calm it sounded.
Gulli blinked once.
His expression shifted immediately.
"…What?"
*** gently pulled Gulli's hand off his hoodie.
Not aggressively.
Almost delicately.
Then looked at him directly.
"You speak like you're above this."
Silence.
"You act like your emotions don't touch you."
Gulli frowned immediately.
*** continued softly.
"You walk around pretending you're untouchable."
His tired eyes remained completely fixed on Gulli now.
"Like you're somehow cleaner than everybody else because you know how to ignore yourself better."
The words landed heavily.
Gulli scoffed sharply.
"Oh yeah?"
A humorless laugh escaped him.
"And you think YOU'RE any better?"
The irritation in his voice returned instantly.
Raw.
Defensive.
*** stared at him silently for a moment.
Then quietly asked:
"…Then why do you mind?"
Gulli froze slightly.
The question lingered heavily between them.
And suddenly—
*** became serious.
Not emotionally.
Worse.
Calm serious.
The kind of seriousness that feels almost detached from humanity itself.
"The only time you've ever truly said what you think about me…"
His voice stayed low.
"…was when you got cornered."
Gulli's jaw tightened slightly.
*** continued.
"When you felt attacked."
Another pause.
"And the only thing left for you to answer with…"
His tired eyes darkened slightly.
"…was violence."
The sentence cut deeply because both of them knew it was true.
The punch.
The screaming.
The aggression.
Gulli looked away for half a second.
That was enough confirmation already.
*** kept speaking quietly.
"And the funny part is…"
A weak smile appeared briefly.
"…what I said about you isn't even true."
Gulli looked back at him immediately.
Confusion flickered across his face.
*** tilted his head slightly.
"You just felt attacked because some part of you already believes it."
Silence.
"You think you're superior."
The sentence came out softly.
Not accusatory.
Observational.
Like stating the weather.
"You think your suffering is more controlled."
"You think your self-awareness makes you different from everyone else."
His gaze sharpened slightly now.
"But all you really did…"
A pause.
"…was become better at hiding panic."
Gulli's breathing became uneven again.
And suddenly—
for the first time tonight—
he genuinely looked hurt.
Not angry.
Hurt.
Because *** wasn't screaming.
Wasn't insulting him emotionally.
He was dissecting him quietly.
And that somehow felt far more intimate.
More violent.
The wind moved softly between them.
Neither noticed anymore.
Then suddenly *** looked away toward the empty street and whispered:
"…I can't."
Silence.
Another breath.
"…But I would."
Gulli frowned immediately.
"…What?"
*** stayed staring at the pavement.
"I shouldn't."
A weak smile appeared briefly.
"…but I should."
Gulli blinked slowly.
"…What the fuck does that mean?"
For several seconds *** didn't answer.
Then finally—
his voice became quieter.
More fragile.
"I don't trust myself anymore."
The sentence felt different immediately.
Real.
Not philosophical.
Not poetic.
Real.
*** looked down at his own left hand slowly.
Flexing the fingers slightly like even they belonged to someone else.
"I don't even trust my own left hand anymore."
Gulli stayed silent.
*** continued softly.
"I know exactly what I'm capable of becoming."
His throat tightened faintly.
"And I know exactly how easy it is for humans to become ugly."
The word humans sounded strange coming from him.
Distant.
Almost detached.
Like he no longer fully considered himself one of them.
*** laughed weakly beneath his breath.
"And the funny part…"
His eyes unfocused slightly.
"…is that I hate people like that."
A long pause.
"Dirty humans."
Silence.
"But I understand them too well."
That sentence hurt the most.
Because underneath everything—
*** feared becoming Cristian.
Not externally.
Internally.
The anger.
The instability.
The violence hidden beneath desperation.
The desperate need for love turning into destruction.
And the worst part—
some part of him believed it was inevitable.
Gulli's expression slowly softened now.
The anger faded slightly from his eyes.
And for the first time all night—
he almost looked guilty.
"…Cri…"
His voice lowered.
Like he wanted to apologize.
Or explain himself.
Or undo something.
But before he could speak—
*** interrupted softly.
"Living for other people…"
A faint smile crossed his face.
Sad.
Exhausted.
"…is such a miserable thing."
Silence.
Then he slowly stepped backward.
One step.
Then another.
Gulli watched him carefully.
Like he was afraid any wrong movement might cause him to disappear completely.
*** looked at him one last time.
And for a brief moment—
he almost seemed unbearably tired.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
Like somebody exhausted from carrying existence itself.
Then quietly he turned away.
And started walking down one of the dark streets alone.
Gulli remained standing at the crossroads.
Watching him disappear slowly beneath the city lights.
Unable to follow.
Unable to stop him.
And somehow—
that felt worse than the argument itself.