The world had been too loud lately.

And when it got like this, you tended to disappear. Not in the dramatic way people imagined, but quietly. Slowly. You stopped answering texts. Let your room grow darker. Let your own reflection become a stranger again.

Damiano noticed.

He always did.

That night, he found you curled on the bathroom floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, knees drawn tight to your chest. You hadn’t cried — not really. You just looked empty, like you had no energy left to fight the weight pressing down on you.

He didn’t speak right away. Just lowered himself onto the cold tiles beside you, his arm gently brushing yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “Just let me be here.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too loud.

And then, softer, as if he wasn’t sure if it was okay to say , “Love me at my lowest… I’ll love you when you’re barely holding on.”

Your eyes stung. He didn’t say it like a quote. He said it like a promise.

He leaned his head against the wall. “You think you have to be okay all the time, just so no one leaves. But I’m not going anywhere, alright? You don’t have to perform for me.”

You turned your face to him, just slightly. Your voice was hoarse.

“I don’t know what to do anymore.”

He looked at you like you were made of glass and gold. “Lighting up the darkness... I can be a shoulder when you’re not strong. Just lean on me.”*

And for the first time in days, you did. Quietly. Desperately. Like your bones remembered what it meant to be safe. Because Damiano never asked for your strength — only your truth.