The wind moved softly through ***'s hair.
Long strands shifting across his tired face.
The blond ends glowed faintly beneath the streetlights while the cold night air wrapped around him completely.
Below—
the river flowed quietly through Florence.
Black water reflecting broken pieces of the city lights.
Everything looked distant from up here.
Small.
Unimportant.
sat motionless on the edge of the bridge.
One leg hanging over the empty space beneath him.
His hands resting loosely beside his body.
No fear.
That was the strangest part.
Months ago the idea of death still frightened him somehow.
Now—
it simply felt inevitable.
Like winter.
Like gravity.
Like something already written long before he was born.
The city behind him continued breathing.
Cars passed occasionally.
Distant laughter echoed somewhere far away.
Life continued naturally.
And somehow—
that hurt.
Because the world clearly did not need him to continue moving.
A weak smile crossed his face.
"…Even if I killed myself now…"
His voice disappeared softly into the wind.
"…it wouldn't really be cowardice anymore."
Silence.
His eyes remained fixed on the dark water below.
"After all…"
A tired breath escaped him.
"…I'll die eventually anyway."
The sentence came out calmly.
Not dramatic.
Not emotional.
Just factual.
And somehow that made it more terrifying.
*** lowered his gaze slightly.
"…Maybe I'd finally do everyone a favor."
The thought settled inside him quietly.
No panic.
No resistance.
Just exhaustion.
Then slowly—
he looked down into the water beneath the bridge.
And for a moment—
the reflections shifted strangely.
The river distorted.
Lights stretched unnaturally.
And suddenly—
he saw them.
Himself.
And Chri.
Laughing together beside the river.
Young.
Alive.
The sound almost reached him.
That stupid laugh Chri always made when he found something genuinely funny.
The vision flickered softly against the dark water.
Then changed.
Now Giacomo stood there instead.
Holding blue flowers carefully in his hands.
Blue roses.
The same impossible flowers.
Giacomo smiled brightly beneath the reflection of the city lights.
And before *** could react—
the image shifted again.
Cristian.
Younger.
Much younger.
Running across a football field.
Laughing loudly after scoring a goal.
That arrogant celebration.
That stupid confidence.
That life.
For one horrible moment—
*** felt his chest ache so violently he thought he might collapse right there.
Because all of them looked alive.
More alive than he had felt in months.
Then suddenly—
his eyes shifted accidentally toward the metal support beside him.
And he saw himself reflected faintly in it.
The distorted image stared back at him.
Long messy hair.
Dark circles.
Thin face.
Hollow eyes.
Tired expression.
Ugly.
Not physically.
Existentially ugly.
Like grief itself had become human.
*** stared at his reflection silently.
And for a brief moment—
he genuinely pitied himself.
Not dramatically.
Not romantically.
Just…
sadly.
Like looking at a wounded animal too exhausted to keep running.
Then suddenly his jaw tightened.
And quietly he whispered:
"…What did I do wrong?"
The question hurt immediately.
Because deep down—
he still believed everything was somehow his fault.
The bridge.
The hospital.
Chri leaving.
Cristian breaking apart.
Gulli crying.
Everything.
His thoughts drifted again.
Back to the divided road.
Back to Gulli.
Back to Chri.
Back to every conversation that ended with distance growing instead of shrinking.
"…Where did I take the wrong road?"
The sentence came out barely above a whisper.
His breathing became uneven.
And slowly—
he leaned slightly forward.
The water below looked peaceful.
Quiet.
Almost comforting.
The wind pushed softly against his body.
Just one movement.
That's all it would take.
One second.
One decision.
And finally—
everything would stop hurting.
*** closed his eyes.
Then—
suddenly—
a hand grabbed him roughly backward.
"CRISTIANO! HEY!"
*** gasped sharply as his body was pulled away from the edge instantly.
His eyes widened violently.
And there he was.
Giacomo.
Standing in front of him breathing heavily.
Brown eyes filled with panic.
His hand still gripping the front of ***'s hoodie tightly.
"What the FUCK are you doing?!"
Giacomo's voice cracked violently.
"You idiot—"
*** stared at him silently.
His chest tightened painfully.
Because Giacomo looked real.
Too real.
The wind moved through his hair.
His expression shook with fear.
His grip felt warm.
Alive.
And suddenly—
*** almost broke.
Then—
another voice interrupted.
"Hey!"
Everything froze.
The voice wasn't Giacomo's.
*** blinked once.
And suddenly—
Giacomo disappeared.
Gone.
The bridge became real again.
Cold.
Empty.
And standing a few feet away—
was a girl.
Around his age.
Long dark coat.
Slightly messy hair from the wind.
Concern visible immediately across her face.
She looked genuinely confused.
And worried.
"…Are you okay?"
*** stared at her silently.
His breathing still uneven.
The girl stepped slightly closer.
"…What were you doing?"
For several seconds he couldn't answer.
Because part of him was still expecting Giacomo to reappear.
Still expecting somebody already gone to save him again.
Finally—
quietly—
*** lowered his gaze.
"…Sorry."
The word came out weakly.
"I didn't mean to…"
The girl frowned slightly.
Clearly confused.
She looked at him for another second.
Then finally—
softly—
she said:
"…Hey."
The exact same tone.
The exact same warmth.
The exact same way Giacomo had said it seconds earlier.
And suddenly—
something inside *** snapped awake violently.
His head lifted immediately.
"…What?"
The girl blinked in confusion.
*** stared at her intensely now.
Almost desperately.
"…Say that again."
"…What?"
"That."
His breathing became uneven again.
"The way you said 'hey.'"
The girl looked confused now.
But slowly—
she repeated it anyway.
"…Hey?"
Silence.
And suddenly—
*** felt his chest tighten so violently it almost hurt to breathe.
Because for one tiny second—
it sounded exactly like him.