Rain crashed against Florence like the city itself was trying to drown.
The streets glowed beneath broken reflections of white headlights and orange street lamps while water streamed endlessly through the gutters beside the sidewalks.
And in the middle of it—
*** stood completely motionless.
Breathing heavily.
Watching Chri walk away.
Every step Chri took felt strangely final.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
Just real.
That terrifying kind of real where somebody emotionally leaves before they physically disappear.
And for several seconds—
*** simply stood there.
Rain dripping from the ends of his blond hair.
Blood still faintly lingering in the corner of his mouth from coughing earlier.
Hands trembling slightly.
Not from fear anymore.
From realization.
Because the worst thing Chri said tonight wasn't:
"I sleep better without you."
It wasn't:
"You're a dog."
It wasn't even:
"I'm not talking to a pussy like you."
No.
The thing destroying him internally was much smaller.
Much quieter.
"You know exactly what it means."
Because he did know.
That was the problem.
And standing there in the rain—
for the first time in years—
*** stopped trying to lie to himself.
Slowly—
his gaze lowered toward the puddle beneath him.
His reflection stared back.
Distorted by rain.
Blond hair hanging over exhausted eyes.
Thin face.
Dark circles.
A body still alive mostly out of habit.
And suddenly—
he understood why seeing himself always felt disgusting.
Not because he hated who he was.
Because he hated how comfortable he became inside suffering.
The realization made him nauseous.
A shaky breath escaped his mouth.
Then quietly—
he whispered to himself:
"…I made pain my home."
The sentence disappeared into the rain.
But hearing it out loud changed something immediately.
Because it was true.
Every relationship.
Every breakdown.
Every collapse.
Every apology.
Everything eventually circled back to the same thing:
Cristiano waiting for somebody to save him emotionally.
Even Giacomo.
Especially Giacomo.
A violent ache spread through his chest instantly at the thought of him.
Giacomo.
The first person who truly saw him.
Not the broken version.
Not the dramatic version.
Not the self-destructive version.
Just Cristiano.
And maybe that's why losing him poisoned everything afterward.
Because after Giacomo died—
Cristiano stopped seeing life as something to live.
Only something to survive.
And surviving slowly became suffering.
And suffering slowly became identity.
And identity slowly became prison.
Rainwater slid down his jaw while another thought surfaced:
Maybe Chri didn't abandon me.
Maybe he escaped.
The realization hurt so badly Cristiano physically bent slightly forward.
His lungs tightened.
His stomach twisted.
Because suddenly—
years of memories started changing shape inside his head.
Every time Chri stayed awake talking him down emotionally.
Every argument.
Every emotional spiral.
Every desperate attempt to help somebody who simultaneously refused to improve.
Cristiano covered his mouth slightly.
Laughing once.
Weakly.
Not because anything was funny.
Because suddenly—
he saw himself clearly.
And it terrified him.
Then slowly—
he reached into his pocket.
Pulled out the cigarettes again.
His fingers wet from rain struggled opening the pack properly.
Eventually—
one cigarette slid free.
The lighter clicked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Finally—
fire.
Small orange light against endless gray rain.
Cristiano inhaled deeply.
Smoke filled his lungs sharply.
Burning.
Real.
Alive.
And while the wind moved through the empty street—
he stared forward silently.
Watching Chri becoming smaller in the distance.
Then suddenly—
the city around him started changing.
Not literally.
Emotionally.
Symbolically.
The world became memory.
A bicycle passed him suddenly.
Two children laughing while riding together through the rain.
And instantly—
Cristiano saw himself and Giacomo.
Younger.
Running beside the sea.
The football tucked beneath Giacomo's arm.
That stupid loud laugh.
That stupid confidence.
For one second—
Cristiano almost smiled.
Then the image disappeared.
Further down the street—
a mother aggressively grabbed her child's arm after he almost slipped into traffic.
The child cried immediately.
And suddenly—
Cristiano remembered his own parents.
Cold eyes.
Constant disappointment.
Never truly cruel enough to become monsters.
Never loving enough to become safe.
Just distant.
Emotionally absent people who accidentally raised a child terrified of abandonment because affection always felt temporary.
A bus passed beside him.
Inside—
students laughed loudly together.
And immediately—
Ema and Giulio appeared in his head.
Their funeral.
The unbearable silence afterward.
The feeling of learning too early that children can die.
That people disappear suddenly.
That happiness has no contract promising permanence.
Cristiano inhaled smoke deeper.
His chest hurt.
But this time—
he didn't romanticize the pain.
That was new.
Because normally suffering made him feel poetic.
Meaningful.
Now it simply felt pathetic.
A stray dog crossed the street nearby.
Thin.
Wet.
Searching through trash bags.
Cristiano watched it silently.
And for the first time tonight—
instead of feeling insulted by Chri calling him a dog—
he understood the metaphor completely.
A starving thing constantly searching for affection.
Terrified of being abandoned.
Following anyone who showed warmth.
And biting the same hands trying to save it.
The cigarette burned lower between his fingers.
Then—
the wind suddenly shifted violently.
And blue roses flew across the street.
An entire bouquet ripped from somewhere nearby.
Petals scattering through the rain.
Bright impossible blue against the darkness.
Cristiano froze immediately.
Giacomo.
Not literally.
But symbolically.
The flowers passed directly in front of his face.
And for one second—
it genuinely felt like his past itself was moving beyond him.
Then suddenly—
CLANG.
A beer can rolled across the pavement.
Before immediately getting kicked away by a teenager laughing with his friends.
The metallic sound echoed sharply.
And instantly—
more symbols emerged around him.
A pharmacy sign glowing red reminded him of hospitals.
Of doctors saying:
"There was nothing more we could do."
A church bell rang somewhere far away.
Funerals.
Loss.
The unbearable weight of people buried too early.
A couple argued loudly beneath a balcony nearby.
And suddenly—
Cristiano remembered nights hearing his parents scream at each other while he pretended to sleep.
A football bounced accidentally into the street from somewhere nearby.
A little boy ran after it laughing.
And immediately—
Cristian appeared in his memory.
Young.
Arrogant.
Celebrating goals like the world belonged to him.
Then Chri.
Then Gulli.
Then Giacomo again.
Every version of love he ever had.
Every version he ruined.
The rain kept falling harder.
And suddenly—
Cristiano realized something.
All these years—
he kept waiting for life to return to before Giacomo died.
As if grief was temporary.
As if one day somebody would hand him back the version of himself buried beside Giacomo.
But that person was gone.
Gone forever.
And maybe—
that was okay.
Because for the first time—
Cristiano finally understood:
Growing up does not mean healing.
It means accepting you will never be the same again.
The realization hit him like lightning.
And suddenly—
something inside him moved.
Not emotionally.
Directionally.
A decision.
For years his life had been reactive.
People left → Cristiano suffered.
People hurt him → Cristiano collapsed.
People loved him → Cristiano feared losing them.
Everything depended on others.
But now—
standing alone in the rain—
for the first time in his entire life—
he wanted to choose something himself.
Not death.
Not suffering.
Movement.
Forward.
And suddenly—
he started running.
Fast.
Straight after Chri.
His shoes splashing violently through puddles.
His breathing becoming ragged immediately.
His chest hurt.
His body screamed at him to stop.
But he kept running anyway.
Because this time—
he wasn't chasing somebody to save him.
He was chasing the chance to finally speak honestly.
"CHRI!"
His voice exploded through the rain.
Further ahead—
Chri slowed slightly.
Then turned.
Confused.
And suddenly—
Cristiano grabbed him hard from behind.
Both of them stumbling slightly.
"What the fu—"
Before Chri could finish—
Cristiano doubled over violently.
Blood spilled from his mouth suddenly onto the pavement below.
Dark red mixing with rainwater.
Chri froze instantly.
"…Cristiano?!"
That name.
Cristiano.
Not ***.
Not Cri.
Cristiano.
And something about hearing it now felt important.
Real.
Cristiano coughed again harshly.
His entire body shaking.
One hand against his mouth.
Blood dripping through his fingers.
The world spinning violently around him.
But still—
he forced himself upright again.
Wiping his mouth roughly with his sleeve.
Then finally—
through ragged breathing—
he looked directly at Chri.
And spoke.
"…You're right."
Chri stared silently.
Rain pouring between them.
Cristiano's chest rose unevenly.
"I am a victim."
The confession sounded horrifyingly honest.
"But…"
He swallowed painfully.
"…a constructed victim."
Chri's expression shifted immediately.
Confusion.
Concern.
Shock.
Cristiano laughed weakly.
"I built this version of myself."
Rain slid down his face endlessly now.
"I made suffering into personality."
Another breath.
"I made sadness into identity."
His voice cracked slightly.
"Because after Giacomo died…"
Silence.
"…I didn't know who I was anymore."
For the first time—
Chri looked genuinely speechless.
Cristiano continued anyway.
Words pouring out years too late.
"So I stayed broken."
Another shaky breath.
"Because being broken meant people stayed close."
That sentence hurt most of all.
Because it was the ugliest truth yet.
Cristiano's hands trembled violently.
"I hated myself…"
His voice weakened.
"…but I also used that hatred."
Rain crashed harder against the street.
"I became somebody who always needed saving."
Chri slowly opened his mouth slightly.
"…Cristiano…"
But suddenly—
Cristiano screamed.
Not angrily.
Not dramatically.
Desperately.
"BUT FROM TODAY EVERYTHING CHANGES!"
The words echoed violently through the empty street.
His whole body shaking now.
Blood still staining part of his chin.
"NO MORE WAITING TO BE SAVED!"
Another breath.
"NO MORE MAKING PEOPLE RESPONSIBLE FOR MY LIFE!"
Rainwater mixed with tears across his face.
"I LOST GIACOMO!"
The confession exploded out of him painfully.
"And after that…"
His voice shattered.
"…I let myself die too."
Silence.
The city itself seemed frozen around them.
Cristiano's breathing became ragged again.
But this time—
there was something new inside his eyes.
Not hope.
Not happiness.
Responsibility.
For the first time—
his suffering belonged to him.
Not to Chri.
Not to Gulli.
Not to Giacomo's memory.
His.
And finally—
quietly—
Cristiano looked directly at Chri again.
Not like a child begging not to be abandoned.
Not like a victim asking to be saved.
Just honestly.
And softly said:
"…I don't want to join Giacomo in death anymore."
The rain continued falling.
But for the first time in years—
Cristiano no longer felt like he was drowning inside it.