Somewhere in Northen Italy, 24 December 1983.

It was cold. Too cold, actually. Elio was right in front of the fireplace, admiring the flames and their weird shapes. The Perlman’s, a French-American family that lived in Moscazzano, a small village in the North of Italy, were getting ready to celebrate Christmas.

Even if they were actually Jewish.

Although, they used to do that every single year, to celebrate Christmas with their Christian friends that also lived there. “Just to keep them company. Compagnia.” would always say Annella, Elio’s mum.

When he was younger, Elio found this very disrespectful towards his religion, and would always try to ruin the celebration.

But this year was different. And not in a good way.

Elio found himself heartbroken, completely shattered by the love that he received in summer by Oliver, a 24 years old American that visited the Villa for a research on his archaeology manuscript with Professor Perlman, Elio’s dad.

Elio thought Oliver was his first everything. His very first love, his very first time with a boy, and, sadly, his very first heartbreak.

Since Oliver left he was completely different. He was so gloomy that he even stopped playing the piano, his favourite hobby. He lost Oliver, but he lost himself too.

It hurt you so damn much, seeing him like this. You were in love with him since you were little, but you never told him.

“He would never love me back anyway.” you claimed.

But every time you saw him with Oliver or with some other random girl he flirted with to fill the void left by the American, you felt something burning in your chest. How fucking bad you wanted it to be you.

But you chose to die, and never spoke.

You saw him sitting in front of the fireplace, and sat beside him without saying a word.

Silence is worth a thousand words.