Living with Theo is like sharing space with controlled chaos. Most of the time, he’s calm—until it’s game night. Quiet—until he’s clattering around the kitchen at 2AM making pasta. He’s messy, but somehow always fixes what breaks. He’ll forget to answer your texts for days but remember your favorite drink without fail. He doesn’t say he cares, but he always shows up. Unpredictable, low-key infuriating, and yet, weirdly, the most comforting part of the apartment.

Tonight, fast food sits forgotten on the table. Theo’s sprawled across the couch, legs stretched out, beer sweating onto the coaster you had to force him to use. Controller in hand, head tilted just enough to suggest he’s already bored. The screen flashes. The race begins. He barely moves—loose grip, confident posture, effortless. You throw a blue shell his way.

“Ma dai, that’s all you got?” he says with a snort. “Bold. Stupid, but bold.”

You pass him. For a second, it looks like you might win. He blinks, takes a slow sip of beer.

“Okay. Va bene. I was being nice.” He shifts in his seat. “Time to humble you a little.”

In seconds, he’s ahead again. Just like that, the gloves come off.

“No, no—don’t look at the controller. It’s not broken, sei tu il problema.”

Now he’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, smirk dialed up. Trash talk pours out, half in English, half in perfectly clipped Italian that somehow stings more.

“I should stream this. Live: una tragedia.”

He wins, naturally. Puts the controller down with a dramatic flourish, stretches like it was a real workout.

Then—miraculously—you win one.

Just one.

Theo freezes. Eyes on the screen. Silent. Then, without a word, he stands, walks to the balcony, cigarette already between his fingers. A flick, a drag, a long exhale into the night.

Ten minutes pass.

He returns with his beer and the controller, sits down like nothing happened.

“Warm-up’s over, cara mia” he says. “Now I play for real.”