Like a stranger wearing my skin.
The light hums overhead, cruel and bright, exposing everything I want to hide. I rest my forehead against my arms and go still.
No sound. No movement.
The tears burn behind my eyes, hot and useless.
I swallow them back.
If you cry, they win.
His words, Matteo’s words echo in my skull, louder than breath.
I’m not a lamb.
Not anymore.
Laughter drifts down the hall from an open door—bright, careless, alive. Life keeps spinning without me.
A world I’ll never fit inside.
I squeeze my ribs, trying to hold myself together before the crack spreads too far.
"Just a little longer," I whisper into the dark. "Keep breathing."
For him. For me.
For the war already bleeding through both our veins.
The night airscrapes over my skin cold, biting, alive.
I perch on the ledge, knees drawn tight, the cliff yawning open beneath me like a dark mouth.
The lighthouse sweeps its light over the waves, steady as a heartbeat I try to match.
When the rooftop door creaks, I don’t turn. I already know it’s him.
Matteo moves toward me, slow, deliberate, the scent of rain and smoke trailing him.
He lowers himself beside me close enough to feel, but not to touch. Silence settles between us, thick as fog.
Only the wind speaks, humming through the stone and carrying salt to our lips.
I watch him through my lashes. His cigarette burns low between his fingers, smoke curling around knuckles split and raw.
Blood darkens the edges. He doesn’t flinch.
My chest tightens.
"Your hand," I whisper, voice nearly lost to the wind.
He flexes his fingers once and shrugs. "It’s nothing."
I know it’s a lie, but I let it go. "How was your weekend?"
He exhales, the smoke drifting toward the stars before he answers.
"My grandfather surprised me," he says at last, voice rough. "My father hasn’t spoken to me since Saturday morning."
