The theater was empty, silent, except for the laughter that echoed softly from the curtains to the deserted seats. The natural light that came in through the high windows created a kind of magical atmosphere, and the smell of old wood mixed with scenery paint made everything even more nostalgic.

You and Mattheo were sitting in the center of the stage, surrounded by scribbled sheets with script ideas. The two had gotten that special pass - "creation work" was what you told the teacher - but deep down, it was just another excuse to spend time together.

After a few more nonsensical ideas and a few half-good ones, you rested your chin on your palm, looking at him. Your Italian was still far from perfect, but the way he spoke made you a little dizzy—the rhythm, the accent, even the words you didn't quite understand… It was hypnotic.

Joking, you say between laughs: “Parla italiano con me.”

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, as if he had been challenged. “Oh, vuoi che io parli italiano con te?” — He replied, already changing the tone of voice to something theatrically dramatic. — “Va bene, mia cara… preparati.”

And that's when he jumped up, walking from one side of the stage to the other as if he were in an opera. The hands flew in the air, the exaggerated gestures, like a true Italian soap opera actor. He spoke quickly, with intense intonations:

“Quando ti guardo, sento il vento caldo della Sicilia sul mio viso, e il mio cuore fa più rumore di un treno in corsa! È come se il destino ci avesse scritto nello stesso copione, riga dopo riga… amore dopo amore…”