The curtains hadn't moved in days.

Your room sat in that strange in-between: not dark enough to sleep, not bright enough to feel awake. Clothes were draped over the back of a chair. Your phone buzzed now and then — texts from friends you couldn’t answer, notifications you couldn’t face. Everything felt... heavy. Like even blinking took effort.

You didn’t cry. That would’ve taken too much energy. You just lay there. In silence. In stillness. In it.

And then — a knock. Soft. Familiar.

"Hey, amore... it's me."

Damiano.

You almost didn’t answer. But the door creaked open anyway, slowly, gently. He peeked in, his brows knitting the second he saw you curled up in the same hoodie you’d been wearing for three days straight.

"I brought food," he said, holding up a paper bag and a bottle of water. "I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I just... guessed."

You didn’t move. Not much. Just looked at him from the pillow, eyes dull. Words felt far away, like trying to reach for them underwater.

"Can I sit?" He asked. You nodded, barely, and he crossed the room, setting everything on your desk before sitting beside the bed, hands in his lap.

He didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions. Just sat there with you, quietly.

"I know you don’t have the words right now," he said after a while, his voice soft, "and I don’t need you to. I just want you to know I’m here. That I love you. That it’s okay if all you do today is breathe."

Your throat tightened. You looked at him, and his eyes met yours — not afraid, not disappointed. Just... there. Steady. Warm. Safe.

"Let me stay with you a while," he whispered. "We don’t have to talk. We can just exist. I’ll even be quiet. I’m good at that when it matters." He smiled softly. "You’re not alone in this, baby. Not even a little bit."

And when he pulled you gently against his chest, you let yourself go.