Archive of Our Own

~

"My name is Carlo Romano. I was born on September 30th, 1999, and I'm the mandolinist of the Romano Family Quartet, and have been since I was 17. Since then, I've finished my education, been travelling, and finally grown my hair out long enough to fix those awful bangs."

~

"No, too... laid-back..." I almost silently told myself as I read what I'd typed into my notes, under the title "potential autobiography" followed by a very absurd amount of question marks.
"...maybe I could go with a more comedic approach, actually..." I mumbled again, fidgeting with the strings on my hoodie. However, I shot the thought down, again telling myself that I'll never get big enough on my own to need one of these. Even though I was just writing things down for fun, I still felt small, like I was stretching my arms out to something too far away. Sighing, I let myself sink further down onto my bed.

I felt a faint tickle on my cheek. Whiskers, for sure. Very tiny ones, to be exact. One of my rats had come to cheer me up, and it was working.

"What do you think, Olive?" I asked softly, as I turned myself sideways to pet her black fur, playfully showing her my phone screen. Although, she seemed less interested in that and more interested in cuddles. So, with a chuckle, I brought her up to my chest and let her snuggle there.

For a little while longer, I typed and deleted various sentences almost mindlessly. Occassionally, my thoughts would wander to a future where people don't just recognize me as Carlo Romano, but also as Carlo. My mind came up with answers to many of their hypothetical questions, but eventually, it ran dry.

I glanced at the time in the corner of the screen. "20:33", it read. I didn't want to be late for dinner, so I carefully got up with Olive, as she began to crawl up my arm and onto my shoulder, and I took her to the cage in my office.

Once she was back in there with her two sisters, I told them, "Papà's gotta go now, okay? I'd take you all with me but your nonni* have a cat, don't they?"

(*Italian for "grandparents")

I smiled, knowing that they couldn't respond or probably even understand, but the thought of them understanding the very paternal way I spoke to them made me happy.

My office was like almost every other room in my house, that being full of plants. However, the more I looked, the more I realized that it didn't exactly resemble a space for traditional work. Sure, there was a desk, a computer, a printer, but if I were to someone what they thought this was supposed to be, they would have probably guessed recording studio, given the desk itself had my piano keyboard tucked slightly underneath the surface, as well as the fact that I had things like a microphone and other minor pieces of hardware. Although, I supposed that this was just normal for any musician.

Any solo musician, maybe. But for just a mandolinist and backup vocalist? It felt strange.

My gaze shifted to the walls. On them were photos, vinyls, and artwork that fans had made for me. The ones that meant well, at least. I started keeping all these things when I first started out with the family, back when it was just a hobby for us all. There was also a photo of us after our first big stage gig. I remembered the turnout being amazing and when I got to school on Monday, everyone suddenly knew the name "Carlo Romano", which was surprising, to say the least.

When I first moved into this place, I arranged everything as chronologically as I could, so it was like a timeline circling the room. A timeline that Carlo Romano was a very important part of, but Carlo just stood outside of and watched pass right by him, letting himself go straight under the radar.

This realization of mine led me to the desk drawers, and I found myself opening them. Inside were songs. Songs I'd written. Some had complete lyrics, some were just lyrics, some had no lyrics. I can remember writing, playing, and singing a lot of them, but my only audience had ever been the rats. Not because nobody else wanted to hear them, but because they weren't Carlo Romano's songs. They were Carlo's. And Carlo has had a lot of feelings and thoughts throughout his life that just didn't fit with the Romanos' brand. But I began to wonder to myself, what if I didn't need to fit with the status quo I'd given myself? What if I didn't always show the people the happy, optimistic side of me? That was certainly there, but that wasn't all there was. What if I showed them the rest of me?

By that point, we were so popular in Portallini that we were less of a marvel and more of a friendly, familiar face. Quite frankly, I loved it that way. However, they only knew half of me, and that was Carlo Romano. Carlo, on the other hand, was a stranger to everyone except his family and friends.

I wanted them all to know who I was. But the way things were going up to that point, they were stuck halfway there.

So, I reached into the drawers and took some pieces that I was particularly proud of. Pieces that allowed Carlo to speak. Pieces that allowed me to speak. And I tucked them into a dark green tote bag with red and white koi fish printed on it, made for me by a long-time friend. I rested it on my shoulder, told my girls to behave and that I'd be back soon, and went into my own room to grab my mandolin. I put it safely in its case and slung it across my back. I then went downstairs, put on my shoes, and left for my dad's house.

~

As I walked, I remembered why August was my favorite month of the year. I'd always adored the late sunsets, the warm days yet cooler evenings, and the calmness of the streets, now that the most tourist-heavy period of the year was coming to a close. Admiring how the sunlight rested on the surface of the water, I reflected on the tranquility of Portallinian evenings, a contrast to the lively, yet remarkably friendly, days. The month prior, I found myself missing this. Of course, I found it lovely that so many people wanted to visit this wonderful place, and getting recognized felt rewarding, to a degree. However, as the month went on, I felt more and more like an attraction myself. I even found myself leaving my house less, like they were out to get me. I felt like I needed to hide. It was a feeling I wasn't exactly a stranger to.

Before my thoughts could get too messy, I reminded myself that it was mostly over, and that I shouldn't have been so upset over this. Part of my job was interacting with fans. Nobody could help it if they got excited, right?

I kept walking, waving to everyone who said "hello", until I began walking across a bridge and noticed a friend walking the opposite direction. Or, more accurately, he noticed me.

"Carlo!" called out a voice, a smile evident in the tone alone. I glanced in his direction and was very pleasantly surprised with who I saw.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Deano! I almost didn't notice you!" I apologized.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured, emitting an air of sincerity, "I didn't see much of you last month. Are you okay?"

"Sorry, I really didn't mean to worry you-" I began, before he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"It's fine, Carlo. Are you okay?" he repeated, his tone a welcome blend of stern and gentle.

I sighed, and smiled at him.

"Yes, I'm alright. Thanks," I answered, before my eyes shifted to the canal below, "...hey," I began, walking to the edge of the bridge and looking over it, "isn't this where-"

"-where we'd sneak out to at night all the time?" he guessed, with a chuckle, now standing next to me.

"Yeah! We must've been... eight, maybe? And we'd play around here and paddle and sometimes we'd even swim!" I recalled fondly. It was true. When he and I were little, our favorite thing to do was to sneak out at night and just play around the canal.
"I think we managed to get away with it for almost the entire summer, right?" I asked.

"I think so, but then one night my parents caught me sneaking back into my room, absolutely soaked, and I had to come clean." he said, with a sheepish smile.

"And then they told my parents, who obviously weren't happy either! But then I snitched on Bruna, too, since she was helping me sneak in and out, so she got some of the blame. But most of it was on me," I reminisced, laughing a little.

"Where are you going, anyway?" he asked, presumably noticing what I had with me.

"We're having dinner at Dad and Olga's house tonight," I told him. However, he still seemed confused.

"Oh... then, why do you have your mandolin with you, if I'm alright to ask?" he added, curious, yet attentive and polite. Still, his question certainly caught me off-guard, and I found myself feeling warmer.

"I just... I want to show them what I've been working on independently." I stammered, looking down at the floor. However, Deano's response rendered my embarrassment unjustified.

"Independently?! That sounds awesome! You should let me have a listen some time! If you're comfortable, that is," he encouraged. I suddenly cooled down a little and my eyes found him again.

"I'll have a think about it, thanks. I reckon I've got at least one song about you. And Koilee, and... a lot of people that I love, actually," I told him, "I suppose, technically, a lot of them are love songs, some of them just aren't about the kind of love you'd expect a song to be written about. And the ones that are feel less like a praise of how fun and carefree modern relationship culture is, and more like a critique of it..." I ended up saying. Truthfully, I didn't realize I was rambling until Deano spoke again.

"That seems like a really unique approach. I love it! Are you running this idea by at dinner, then?" he asked, enthusiastically.

"Either that, or after. I just hope they don't get the wrong idea from me doing this..."

"What is the wrong idea?"

"That I don't want to play in the quartet anymore. I don't have any plans of leaving at all, I just want to see what I can do on my own, y'know?"

"I totally get that. Let me know how it goes!"

"I will! And on that note, I should get going. I know it's only around the corner from here, but I really don't want to be any later than I already am... probably!" I told him, light-hearted in tone.

"Oh, absolutely. Have a good night, Carlo!" he bid, as he began walking away.

"You too!" I responded, doing the same in my own direction.

~

Once I'd reached the house, approaching the door felt important, in a way. It always did, now that I lived alone. I could never truly place what that importance is until I stepped inside. This time, however, things felt different. I felt even more of that unidentifiable significance. It wasn't due to the place itself, since it had never changed. As Bruna and I grew up, as our family changed, as people came and went, the one constant was our home.

This time, nerves undoubtably played some part in it. My hand shook as I knocked on our front door, the red-brick walls around it now more green than the dark, cherry-like color they once were, thanks to all of the ivy that had made itself at home over the years.

Again, my mind began to flood with thought after thought, and I found myself trembling more and more.

The door opened. And the significance was nostalgia.

"Carlo!" called out the voice of my father as I looked down at him, smiling, having calmed down. It was very evident that I didn't get my height from him. He took my hand and led me further into the hallway, as I shut the door behind me.
"Come on, inside. I always forget how tall you've ended up growing, you know?" he teased. By the sound of his voice, one would've assumed that he was just a cranky, grouchy, old man, but whilst he can come off as blunt sometimes, he was actually the kindest and most loving father I could ask for.
"You're not late, don't worry. Gino's not here yet, either. Did you get here okay?" he asked me.

"I did, Dad," I told him.

"Good, good," he responded, sounding relieved, before noticing what I was wearing.
"Hey, what are you doing wearing this big thing in August?!" he asked, tugging my hoodie sleeve.
"When someone invites you for dinner, you're not supposed to try and cook yourself! You've started covering up so much these days. Why's that?"

I didn't really know what to tell him. He wasn't exactly wrong.

"Come on, get this thing off of you. It looks lovely, but I don't want you getting a temperature, okay?" he advised.

"Alright..." I sighed, taking off my bag and mandolin so that I could remove my top layer. As I was doing so, he noticed what I had with me.

"You gonna play us a song, eh, stellino*?" he remarked, pleasantly surprised.

(*an Italian pet name meaning "little star")

"Sort of. Wait until after dinner, okay?" I instructed, a hint of playfulness in my voice as I tied my hoodie around my waist. I noticed just how much cooler it was now that I just had a t-shirt on.

"Alright, then. It'll be ready soon. You're still quite early, in fact! Come put your things in the living room-" he began, but when I started to follow him...
"...hey, wait! Scarpe*!" he reminded sternly, pointing at my shoes.

(*Italian for "shoes". pronounced "scar-pay")

"Sì! Sì! Scarpe!" I stammered as I took off my shoes, remembering that he'd always been pedantic about shoes in the house.

He led me down the hallway and into the living room, or living rooms. We had a more cozy, almost library-like room, which opened into a slightly more typical family room, which had our television and an upright piano in, along with most other things found in a living room. However, Olga was sitting in the one prior, reading.

"Cara*, your favourite step-child's here," Dad joked as we walked in.

(*an Italian pet name meaning "dear")

"Eddie, you know I don't have a favourite!" she told him playfully, looking up from her book and smiling in our direction. I noticed the nickname she gave him, and I found it adorable.
"Hi, Carlo. How are you doing?" she greeted, warmly.

"I'm fine, thank you. Are you alright?" I asked in response, setting my things down on a nearby armchair, staying stood up myself.

"Oh, I'm doing wonderfully! Edoardo, he's so polite. Has he always been this way?" she said to my father, who chuckled in return.

"Well, he has always been our angioletto*, haven't you, Carlo?"

(*an Italian pet name meaning "little angel")

"Come on, Papà..." I muttered, an embarrassed smile on my face.

"Have you brought your little angels with you, Carlo?" Olga asked, referring to the rats. Before I could respond, my dad did.

"With the cat around, they'd become angels," he said, bluntly. It was the truth.

"Yeah, I love Luigi, but I've had to stop bringing them around since you got him. Still, if you wanna see them, you know you can always stop by," I told her kindly, knowing that she definitely liked them the most out of the others.
"Where is Lulu, anyway?" I added, noticing that I hadn't seen him yet.

"He's upstairs," Dad began, "and so is your sister. She got here an hour ago and went straight to the office," he explained, much to my concern.

"Oh, I'll go up and check on her then, shall I?" I offered, already walking towards the door as my dad let out a sigh.

"Per favore*... you know how she likes to work," he remarked, sounding annoyed and concerned at the same time.

(*Italian for "please")

So, I decided to make my way upstairs.

~

With each step I took up those stairs, my father's words echoed in my mind once more. Each time they did, I found myself growing more and more concerned. At the top of the stairs sat the cat.

"Hi, Luigi..." I said, as I reached down to quickly pet his beige coat, "sorry, no cuddles yet."

I stood back up straight and made my way down the hall to the office, noticing that she'd closed the door. I knocked gently, so much as to not startle her.

"Bruna?" I called out softly.

"Carlo?" I heard a noticeably exhausted voice respond.

"Can I come in?"

"...I'm busy."

"And I'm worried..."

"Fine..." she sighed.

I slowly opened the door. With the sun outside the window in front of me almost completely set, the only light in the room came from there and from the laptop screen right next to it, which was even brighter than the sun. In front of the screen, I saw the silhouette of my sister, slouched over in a chair, and her hair tied up in a messy ponytail.

"Oh, Bruna..." I sighed, walking into the less-than-spacious room and towards her.

She didn't respond, instead shifting to bury her head in her hands.

"When was the last time you brushed your hair?" I asked in a soft voice, carefully taking a few strands between my fingers.

"This evening," she mumbled.

"Properly?" I added, slightly sternly.

"...two days ago..."

"Bruna... this isn't like you. You're very good at keeping yourself presentable, but when you focus so much on work, that all changes... have you noticed that?" I made sure to speak gently and kindly to her. She seemed tired. The last thing I wanted to do was to tire her poor mind out even more.

"I have, but... when I'm working, my top priority isn't exactly looking pretty..."

"It isn't about looking pretty, it's about being good to yourself. Look at me, let me see your face..." I insisted, crouching down to her level.

I could tell she was reluctant to do so, but she turned the chair to me and let me look at her in the dim glow of the sunset.

"Look at you... you've got such awful bags under your eyes. You're the most beautiful woman in the world, you know? But I hate seeing you like this... I hate seeing you all tired and not taken care of... I always have, Bruna. You know this, don't you?"

"...your adorableness won't work on me this time..." she retorted.

"I'm not being adorable. I'm being your brother. I'm being me. But you're not being you right now, are you? The Bruna I know, the Bruna I've grown up with, the Bruna that's been with me since the moment I was born... she knows what she needs. She knows she's important. She knows that, even though she's got jobs to do, even though there are people who look up to her..." as I spoke, I realized something about the words I was saying, "...she's a person, too. And she knows that the human body is more delicate than most people think."

Even though I was the one saying them, it felt good to hear them. Although, I was certain that Bruna needed to hear them more than I did.

"It's just so... everything, Carlo..." she began. I noticed her eyes going a little red.
"Being our manager is... I've got it in my head that it's this huge, important job, and that I have to do it perfectly... because I love the Romano Family Quartet. I really do. I don't want anyone to have to doubt that, ever... and it's tiring, and frustrating, and... everything..." as she spoke, her voice trembled more and more.
"I'm sorry... I wish I didn't need you to remind me like that... I mean, you're my fratellino*... it should be me looking after you..." she laughed through tears.

(*Italian for "little brother")

"Don't say sorry, Bruna. I don't need to hear you apologize. I'd like to hear you promise that you'll pause your work for now, that you'll go downstairs and relax, that you'll be safe on your way home tonight, and that you'll get a good night's sleep. Is that alright to ask?"

She thought for a while, her dampened eyes glancing away from me for a moment, before finding my gaze again.

"Okay... I promise..." she said, standing up.

"Is there anything I can give you?" I offered, doing the same.

"Maybe a hug?" she said, with a smile.

"Okay, come here..." I chuckled softly, pulling her in for a hug.

"Why are you so tall?" she mumbled into my shoulder, her arms around me and mine around her.

"Genes, probably?" I chuckled quietly, admittedly not entirely paying attention. I'd always had a tendency to sort of zone out during hugs and let my guard down a bit. I'd always loved the feeling of embracing another, it meant I could feel all of them, and hold them. It meant that I knew they were there.

However, something caught my eye as I looked over Bruna's shoulder.

"Hey, do you know what's in there?" I asked, referring to a small storage box sat underneath the desk. My sister turned around and went to take a closer look.

"I've never actually checked. Probably just old paperwork, or something..." she guessed, nonchalantly, before thinking for a moment and continuing in more adventurous tone, "...or it could be something really cool! You wanna check?"

"Well, no-one's ever said "don't open the box in the office", right?" I mentioned, as she was already retrieving it from underneath.

"Come on, you don't have to be the good kid anymore, Carlo! If it's something we think we shouldn't have seen, we'll just close it and put it back. Simple!" she suggested, sitting back down and opening it enthusiastically as I looked over her shoulder.
"Oh, neat! Books! I remember reading some of these!"

Inside were a few old books, some of which belonged to Bruna and I when we were younger.

"Oh, I really loved this one," I noticed, reaching over and taking one out myself.

"Fra*, that one was mine," she pointed out, amused and confused at the same time.

(*like calling someone "bro" in Italian)

"Oh, right. When I was like, 13, I took a bunch of your romance novels and read them all," I told her nonchalantly, still looking through the box, before I noticed something.

"You what-"

"Hey, hold on..." I began, taking it out. It was slightly smaller than the other books, and had a blank red cover.

"What's that?" asked Bruna.

"I don't know..." I responded, slowly opening it to the first page. I was surprised at what I saw; lined paper, a date, and my own, cursive handwriting. I started reading it out loud, smiling as I remembered the day I was recounting.

~

"Friday, September 30th, 2016: I'm seventeen today. My best friend, Deano, bought me this diary as a gift. But I also got another, just as incredible present from my family, and that was a spot in the family band! They told me that they'd been waiting for a special day to let me join. I'm so happy, because I've always wanted to join in. Playing my mandolin is one of my favourite things in the whole world! And, not that it matters very much, but people at school seem to really like it, too. Ever since The Romano Family started getting more well-known around Portallini, loads of people had been asking why I was never with them. The truth was, I wanted to focus on school, and I was only a little bit nervous. But now, we're the Romano Family Quartet! It's going to be so much fun!"

~

"Aww!" went Bruna, closing the box and putting it back underneath the desk.
"You wanna head downstairs now?" she asked.

"Um... tell them I'll be down in a minute," I told her.

"Oh. Okay!" she said.

We both left the room, but while she went downstairs, I went into a different room, still holding the old diary.

~

Opening the door, I was met with that same slowly-dimming glow from the office, however, this time it engulfed the entire room. My bedroom was the one with the best view of the sunset, which was one of the reasons I'd always been so fond of it.

I glanced at all the furniture inside, from the empty wardrobe to the bed, now stripped of the blankets I'd sometimes leave when I was a child, in favour of a warmth that only snuggling with my big sister could've brought me.

I sat on the empty bed, noticing that it was only a matter of time before the warmth of the setting sun left the room.

I looked down at the red book in my hands, and opened it up again, to wherever in time I let it take me.

~

"Monday, December 5th, 2016: I got surprisingly lucky today. I had really liked a girl at school for quite a while. Not in the way you'd like a friend, but in the way I'd read about in Bruna's books. It was far scarier in real life, though. But ever since I started playing with the band, I'd gotten a lot more popular at school. It's been quite fun, so far. I like having loads of friends. But, some girls have started to take a liking to me. Which is good? I think? The boys say I should "take advantage of the situation" which I think I've been doing. I've been getting very good at remembering names, and being friends with everybody makes me feel very happy!"

~

I sighed at my own ignorance. That was when I remembered just how naïve I was.

~

"Back to the part about girls, the one I like actually asked me out, and I said yes! So, I guess I have a girlfriend now. I told her that I'm quite nervous, because I've never been someone's boyfriend before. She told me that it's all going to be okay, and that she'll help me when I need it. I'll try my hardest to make her happy!"

~

I so badly wanted to go back in time and warn myself. I wanted to tell him so many things. I turned the pages, and for a long time, it was me enthusing about how "wonderful" and "amazing" it was to have someone who "loved" me. I was recounting all the times she'd said things like, "You're so handsome, Carlo", "Hold my hand", "I want you to kiss me, Carlo."

I hadn't written an entry for every day. I remembered mostly only using it as an outlet for any overwhelming feelings I had, good or bad. It only really helped a little.

~

"Wednesday, July 12th, 2017: My first pet went away on Monday. She was a hamster named Panda. I got her for my fifteenth birthday, and I watched her grow up. She was adorable, she was wonderful, and she was perfect. It really hurt me when she passed, so I didn't just want to write about it in here. I talked to my dad and sister, and they were lovely. I was supposed to go to my girlfriend's house that evening, but I wasn't sure if I should've canceled or not. On one hand, I was really upset. But on the other hand, I didn't want to let her down."

~

My vision went blurry, there was a pain in my throat, and my hands began to tremble.

~

"I showed up to her house. We hung out, even though I didn't really want to. But I was kind of used to that. I was used to putting her happiness above mine. But I couldn't get the thought of poor Panda out of my head, and at some point, while she was trying to cuddle me, I started to tremble. She seemed annoyed. I apologized, and as I was explaining the situation, I started crying. She told me something along the lines of, "Not while I'm trying to spend time with you, you're such a pretty crier, though," and I know she was probably trying to comfort me, but for some reason, I didn't feel very comforted. She was complimenting me to make me feel better, right? Is that how it works?"

~

I thought to myself, "No, Carlo. No it isn't."

By then, the page had tear stains that weren't on it before. So, I turned to a different one.

~

"Wednesday, August 30th, 2017: I feel really guilty. I broke up with her yesterday. She tried to convince me not to, claiming that "a pretty girl and a handsome boy are perfect for each-other." That only made me want to break up with her even more. It was always, "you're really hot," and never "you're really kind." It was always "you look pretty when you cry," and never "are you okay?" I don't think she ever even said "I love you, Carlo." Not to mention how she always had a surprisingly tight grip on my hand. It was like she didn't want me to leave. She hurt me, and every time I told her she was holding my hand too tightly, she just said "I'll let go in a second." I don't know why I let her carry on. She always insisted we hang out, even when I was tired, or sad, or sick."

~

All I could do was think to myself, "why did I let her?"

~

"She yelled at me yesterday. She said, "You're supposed to be my boyfriend! Why can't you just act like it?!" But as far as I could recall, I did. I told her she was pretty, I told her she was sweet, I loved her hobbies, I gave her affection. I gave her affection when I was able to, and I gave her the kind of affection that I could give her. But that wasn't enough for her. Or was it too much? I don't know. I couldn't love her the way she wanted me to. I couldn't make her happy."

~

That wasn't where the entry ended, but it was where I stopped reading. I physically couldn't read any more, since by then my eyes were horribly blurry. I shut the diary, and put it to one side, then covered my eyes with my hands. Through my fingers, I looked down and saw the hoodie I had around my waist, instead of keeping me warm and safe.

What made me upset wasn't the breakup itself. In fact, I was glad I got away. What made me upset was the realization that some people were going to look at me and only see a picture, and not a person. The realization that I could've saved myself sooner, if I hadn't been so naïve. The realization that if I wanted romance as badly as I did, I would have to risk getting hurt again.

Hands trembling, head spinning, I untied the sleeves from around my waist, and clothed myself in that extra layer again.

My mind filled with thoughts again, thoughts of "What if that's all the fans want?", "What if they only listen to my voice, and not the words I'm singing?", "What if I try to let them know who I really am, but they just see something to look at?"

All of a sudden, it didn't seem like such a good idea to give the real Carlo a voice, knowing that he'd be putting himself out there and in danger of being hurt again. And given Carlo Romano's fanbase, that terrified me. As I tried repeating to myself in my head that I knew they meant well, it became more obvious that I didn't know. I hoped.

That was when I ran out of thoughts. There wasn't anything to distract me that time. By then, my mind had nothing else to say.

As for the rest of me, apparently I had quite a lot of sadness left, evident by my tearful wails into my sleeves. I tried so hard to think back to what I'd said to Bruna, tried telling myself that I'm important, that I need to look after myself, that I'm a person.

For some reason, it didn't seem like they applied to me.

The sun had finally set, and so I was no longer bathed in the nostalgic faint glow of my childhood bedroom. I'd grown up. And to me, that meant that I had to act like it.

~

Shakily, I got up and left the room. To my annoyance, I was still hiccupping from the cry I'd just had.

I heard a soft voice calling my name. I heard light footsteps up the stairs. It was my older cousin. Words couldn't express how much trust I had in him. It'd always been that way.

But I didn't want him to see me like this. I didn't want him to see my damp, red eyes, or my even redder and damper face.

And yet, he did. He reached the top of the stairs.

"I've been calling you. Dinner's-" he began, before seeing me.
"Carletto*..." he gasped quietly, approaching me worriedly.

(*the Italian suffix "-etto" is a diminuitive conveying smallness or affection, works because Carlo is the youngest in the family)

"Gino, tell them I'll be down in a second..." I hicced.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice soft, but I could see the worry behind his glasses as he looked up at me. I could see how scared he was. I could see that he really did care. Deep down, I knew they all did.

In that moment, I decided that I was tired of trying to ignore that. Who knows why I ever did?

My mind was full of noise, through which I couldn't hear the words I wanted to say.

Upon hearing my silence, a look of empathy took his face.

"Go wash your face, okay? Should I tell them you'll be down?" he asked gently to which I responded by simply nodding my head.

"Alright. Just know that you can talk to us, okay? We all love you," he reassured, with a smile.

"Thanks, Gi..." I muttered.

~

So, he went downstairs and I went into the bathroom, and as I approached the mirror above the sink and really saw the state I was in, I realized that I couldn't go on the way I was. A lot of the things written in that diary weren't things I told anybody. Sure, they knew about the girl, but they didn't know that she hurt me. I feared that, if I did, they'd just expect me to suck it up, and to deal with it like a man. In my defence, that was something I'd never dealt with before, so naturally, I didn't know what to expect in terms of their reaction. Still, I'd never been able to place what gave me that idea, but it was an idea that latched onto my mind like a parasite as I grew older.

Yet, somehow, hearing what Gino told me just then is what really made me reconsider my incredibly flawed logic of "my brain told me to worry about it, so it's obviously going to happen."

I ran the cold water. It was freezing, obviously, but somehow, it felt nice on my face. It felt new, and fresh, even though it was just water.

~

After drying my face, I stepped down the stairs, the motion unwelcome in my head, which hadn't fully ceased hurting yet from the cry. However, by then, I was too distracted by the pain of my empty stomach by that point to really care. The familiar smell of my dad's cooking coming from downstairs was comforting, anyway.

I walked into the dining room to see plenty of food waiting on the table and four faces sat around it looking happy to see me. Was "happy" the right word? It was more like "relieved", really.

"You've got that thing on again," pointed out my dad. It was far from comfortable, given the heat from the kitchen next-door, not to mention how the sleeves were soaked with cold water and tears.

So, I took it off. Not because he told me to this time, but because I just didn't want to wear it. I hung it on the back of my chair instead of tying it around my waist this time. Leaving it off completely felt much better.

~

I was surprisingly quiet for the majority of dinner, only really joining in when I had to add to the conversation. Normally, one of my favourite things was having dinner at Dad's house, but this time felt different. I also had the feeling that things wouldn't be the same here after today, but part of me was starting to think that this change was one that was long overdue.

Even afterwards, when we were all helping to clean up, I didn't feel "there". I just felt like I was watching myself through my own eyes, barely saying a word.

Once that was done, as everyone was leaving for the family room, and I was sort of just mindlessly following them, I heard Dad call me.

"Carlo," I heard from behind me, just as I was about to walk through the door. I saw that he was still in the dining room, and he was holding my hoodie.
"You forgetting something?" he joked, his smile looking sadder than usual, which confused me.

"I... I guess I am. Thank you," I said, my voice coming out unexpectedly quiet as I walked over to take it.

"The sleeves are a little wet," he noticed, which caught me off guard.

"That's... because..." I stuttered, my hands trembling as I took it. My father's expression turned into one of understanding.

"Gigi came down and said you weren't doing too great. I told the others not to bring anything up. I said "Let the boy eat first," and that was that," he explained softly.

"Dad, I'm not a boy anymore..." I insisted, slightly embarrassed.

"I know, I know. But you're my son. You're my boy," he assured, taking one of my hands and holding it in both of his.
"and I'm your Papà. It's my job to make sure you're alright, no?"

I'd always known that my Dad loved me. However, it wasn't until that moment that it really hit me. Right in the soft, fragile heart.

Before I knew it, I was tearing up again.

"Sit down, angioletto," he instructed gently, so I did. He sat next to me.

"I'm sorry, you don't want to see me crying, do you?" I sighed, not realizing that I said it out loud.

"That's silly. I want to see you smile, and I want you to mean it. But that's not going to happen if you don't let yourself cry, capisci*?"

(*Italian for "you understand", pronounced "ca-peesh-ee")

I let out a shaky sigh, which set the tone for the cry this time around. It seemed like I'd gotten most of it out of me earlier, so this time I was much quieter, and it was easier to speak.

"Papà... I want to tell you everything, but I just don't know how to explain it..." I breathed. To me, it felt as though I had forgotten the words to an important song.

That gave me an idea.

"Dad, can you fetch me my bag from the other room?" I asked him, to which he agreed, and in almost no time, returned with it.

It wasn't just the diary upstairs that I used to express how I felt. The lyrics I had with me were probably more true to my innermost feelings, as I'd written them after a lot of reflection.

I took out the many lyrics to different songs that I'd written down. Some complete, some not. The ones about people I love, the ones about how I want to be seen as a person and not a picture, the ones about me desperately trying to piece my heart back together, but constantly being afraid of the jagged pieces.

And I told him everything.

And he told me a lot of things that I wish I were told sooner. But, at the same time, I was so glad he told me when he did.

"Carlo, the world we live in is a difficult one. There's gonna be people who hurt others. Accidentally or on purpose. But there's also gonna be people who look after those who've been hurt, and most of the time, it all overlaps. What makes someone a strong person isn't how many people they've hurt, or how many times they've been hurt. It's how they handle being hurt. That's why it's so important to let yourself be vulnerable, because it takes a lot of strength to let people know that you're not okay."

"You've always been so strong, Carlo, because you're probably the most caring and attentive person I've ever had the joy of knowing. You've always been so expressive. You've always been so sweet. You've never been afraid to let people know that you have feelings. To let them know that you're a person, and I'll bet you don't even realize half the time! Anyone who looks at you and sees anything less than that just doesn't know you at all, do they? But, knowing you, anyone with common sense is gonna want the pleasure of knowing you. If they don't, it's their loss."

"The grown adults who are still so immature that they look at you and see nothing but something pretty to look at, something cute to shout from the rooftops about, something to cover in unwanted affection, aren't worth your time. If you're hurt by them, it isn't your fault. But like I said, what matters is how you handle it. If it bothers you so much, say something. I know you. You'll do a good job. You'll put them in their place without trying to hurt them back, and to be able to do that shows more strength than you could ever imagine."

"You sell yourself short, stellino. Take it from me: the man who's been there since day one. I've watched you grow into the best son I could ever ask for. I'd say that you'll be okay, but that doesn't even cover it all. You'll do amazing, angioletto."

The tears in my eyes were different this time. The grateful, overjoyed, and adoring kind of tears.

"And I've not even heard these yet!" he added, enthusiastically.
"Seems you were planning on giving us a little show! You still up for it, stellino?"

Absolutely.

~

With my mandolin with me, I seated myself close to the piano in the living room, and the others sat around the room, waiting.

That's when I told them. In all honesty, it felt like I was on stage. Though, not in a nerve-wracking way.

"So, in a lot of my spare time, I've been writing my own songs. I know I write for the quartet sometimes, but these one's don't exactly fit the brand... instead, I've been writing these straight from my heart, and they're the results of a lot of reflection I've done over time. Some of them are about things that have happened to me, some of them are about my feelings, and some of them are about my loved ones. Another theme I find very present in my personal writing is the flawed nature of contemporary romance, and my longing for simplicity versus the inevitable difficulty of such a concept." I rambled, proudly.
"Were any of you writing that down? That was good!" I added, to everyone's amusement, before I cleared my throat.

"Anyway, anyway..."

~

The day ended on a lovely note. I played a song, then told them what it meant, repeat until I ran out of complete songs. It made opening up to them all surprisingly easy.

Then, I showed them the lyrics and music I'd written down, but not completed. It also gave me a chance to show off my vocal range, which I didn't get to do much of as just a backup vocalist.

They all really enjoyed what was technically my first solo concert. First of many, as it turned out! Everyone was so proud of me, and supportive of me, and there for me, and it meant so much.

It still does.

And it always will.

-Carlo

~

I read over what I'd typed on my computer, and decided it was good. It made a much-needed and very important addition to my "good things that have happened" folder, complete with an analogue smiley face. I saved it, logged off, and briefly admired the new additions I'd made in my office-slash-studio, my favourite ones being various accessories to outfits I'd worn on stage.

That was when I heard a knock on the front door. And then another, and another, and several more. I smiled, knowing it was Bruna messing with me.

I opened the cage, and my rats instantly knew what that meant. I held one in my hand, and let the other two situate themselves on my shoulders. I then shut their cage, left the room, and began walking downstairs.

"Come on, girls, our guests are here!"

~