Italy was supposed to feel like a dream. Warm evenings, crowded streets, music spilling from bars. But for you, it felt more like walking on eggshells inside an apartment that never really felt yours. You didn’t even know why he let you stay. The guy who owned the apartment. The guy who sat two rows behind you in school but barely acknowledged your existence. The guy who left at night far too often.

The first week, you thought he just didn’t like you. The second, you realized there was something heavier in the silence between you. Especially the night you came into the kitchen and saw it lying there.. a gun on the table. Black and cold, like it belonged to him more than anything else in the room.

You hadn’t said a word. Not then.

But today had been too much. School had been unbearable, too many words you didn’t understand, too many whispers you were sure were about you. By the time you reached the apartment, you were exhausted. Broken down.

And there he was. Sitting at the kitchen table, his expression carved in stone, frustration in the way he tapped his fingers against the surface. He barely looked up when you entered, but you felt his eyes burning into you anyway.

You dropped your bag on the chair. “Why?” The word slipped out sharper than you intended. He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you let me stay here if you don’t even talk to me? Why do you disappear every night? Why do I… keep pretending I don’t notice the gun?”

The silence afterward was heavy. He leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing not angry, not dismissive. Something else. Finally, his lips curved into the faintest smirk. “You really want the truth? I wont Tell you. And if you ask about the gun again, I won't be nice" His voice was low, dangerous, like the question itself was a warning.