“He took his own life. Two weeks ago.”
My lungs seize. I blink, waiting for something else, for a correction, a lie, anything.
But it’s the truth.
Tomasso turns away, jaw clenched. My father pats my leg in the only way he knows how to show comfort.
As I protest the news, they hand me the letter he left behind.
His handwriting is small and neat. Each word carves a new wound into my already bleeding soul.
To my family,
I’m sorry. I know you love me. But love is not always enough.
I’m tired of pretending I belong in a world that isn’t meant for me. I’m tired of being a disappointment. Of being the shame no one speaks about.
And now that Giovanni may not be around to carry on the family name, I can’t hide how useless I am.
What’s the point of being here if I’m just a reminder of everything wrong?
If Giovanni ever wakes up, tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger.
Tell him he was always my hero. But if he never does, then I will tell him myself.
Goodbye.
Alessio
I read it until the ink blurs. Until my fists bleed from punching the wall. Until I’m hoarse from screaming into the silence he left behind.
He was just a boy.
My brother.
My responsibility.
I remember the way he used to mimic me. The way we created our own language, gestures only we understood. The way he laughed without sound but with his whole body. How he’d press his fingers to my chest when he was scared, seeking calm. Seeking me.
And I failed him.
I let him drown in a world I was meant to control. A world that chewed him up and spat him out dead because he was different.
Because he was soft.
Because no one thought he could lead.
Not even him.
A week later, I stand over his grave, the stone slick with early morning dew. The cemetery is empty. No priests, no mourners. Just me.
A bouquet of white lilies lies at the base. He hated flowers, said they reminded him of funerals. I bring them anyway.
I kneel, palm against the cold marble.
Alessio Renzetti.
Beloved son. Cherished brother.
