The Cold Truth
2004, Venice, Italy.
Summer
I remember when it all began.
I was six when I met Matteo. That was the summer my family moved to Venice, our house tucked beside the quiet canals, just across from his. The days smelled of saltwater and sun-warmed stone, and the world felt endlessly slow, like the Tuscan countryside stretching beyond the city—golden, unhurried, alive.
At first, we only glanced at each other. No words. Just two children pretending not to be curious. Then one afternoon, he walked up to me and asked, very seriously, if he could share his snacks.
I was six. Of course, I said yes.
From that moment on, we were inseparable.
He calls me Lucy. He knows I hate it. My name is Lucia, and I remind him every single time. I think he calls me Lucy anyway because he enjoys teasing me far too much.
Now we are eight.
Our families have become something like one family—mostly because of us. Matteo is always at my house. Sometimes I wonder if he has any other friends at all. He probably doesn’t. And honestly, he wouldn’t need them. I’d kill him if he did.
Matteo is the most honest boy I know. He never lies, even when the truth hurts. There’s something a little different about him, too—something special. His eyes are brown, but they sparkle in the sunlight, like they’re holding secrets the rest of us haven’t learned yet. I tease him about it, tell him it’s strange.
It was around eight on a Saturday evening when I heard a knock at the door.
My parents had gone out for their anniversary, leaving the house unusually quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every sound feel louder than it should be.
I opened the door and saw him.
Matteo.
He looked… broken.
His eyes were red, swollen like he’d been crying for hours, and the moment he saw me, more tears spilled over. He didn’t say a word. He just rushed forward and wrapped his arms around me, burying his face against my shoulder as if he’d been holding himself together by a thread—and it had finally snapped.
“Matteo?” I whispered, hugging him back. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer. He only cried harder.
There was something about Matteo that made him especially vulnerable. His parents fought all the time, loud, careless fights that didn’t stop just because he was in the room. I think that was why he spent so much time at my house, why my home felt like his refuge.
And tonight… they were fighting again.
I led him upstairs, to my room. We sat on my bed, the warm yellow glow from the bedside lamp wrapping around us, soft and safe, like it was trying to protect us from the world outside.
“Do you want some biscuits?” I asked gently. “Mom baked them this afternoon.”
He didn’t speak. He only shook his head.
That was unlike him.
I scooted closer, my legs dangling off the bed. I already knew what had happened—it wasn’t the first time he’d come to me like this, quiet and shattered. I thought for a moment, then stood up and turned to face him.
“Should we just run away together?” I said suddenly.
He looked up at me, startled. “What?” His voice cracked. “What do you mean? I—I can’t run away. We’re young. I can’t take care of us, I’m—”
“Tiny and shorter than me, huh?” I interrupted, grinning.
He blinked. Then he smiled, just a little—and nodded. “Yes.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I said confidently. “As long as we’re together, we’ll be fine. We could even get married.”
I waited for it. I always did. We both hated it when anyone mentioned us being together, and right now he is about to.
“Oh, stop!” he burst out, laughing through his tears. “Nooo! Ew! That’s disgusting!”
“Exactly,” I laughed. “I just wanted you to smile. And it worked.” I grabbed his hand. “Come on. Want to check on the plant we grew together?”
He hesitated—but then he looked at me.
Lucia's pretty round eyes were the one thing he could never say no to.
“Okay,” he said softly.
We walked into the corridor and crouched beside the small pot near the window.
“It grew!” Matteo gasped. “Ahhh, it actually grew!”
“No,” I scoffed. “I told you I should’ve planted it myself, you made it short because you are short, I am much taller”.
“Just by an inch!” he shot back, grinning. “In a few years, I’ll be taller than you.”
“You wish,” I said.
We laughed.
Just across the street, in an apartment lit by a single trembling lamp, a woman lay crumpled on the floor.
She was crying, openly, helplessly—her sobs filling a room left in ruins. A vase lay shattered near the wall, water creeping across the tiles like spilled secrets. Picture frames had fallen, glass cracked, memories tilted and broken. The air still vibrated with the remnants of an argument that had clearly ended only moments ago.
The door burst open.
A man rushed in, his footsteps urgent, his breath uneven. He dropped to his knees beside her, hands hovering as if afraid to touch what was already shattered.
“What happened?” he demanded, anger sharp in his voice. “Did he do this to you?”
He sprang to his feet, rage burning hot, ready to storm—but the woman reached for him, gripping his arm.
“Leave it,” she said weakly. “I’m fine.” She sniffed, wiping her face. “Did you see my son, Matteo outside?”
He froze. His chest rose and fell heavily as he stared down at her. “He shouldn’t treat you this way,” he said bitterly. “You deserve better.” His voice hardened. “You did this to yourself, Maria.”
She pushed herself up slowly. “He’s my husband,” she said. “I chose him. Whatever consequences I face… that was my choice.”
She turned to walk away.
He caught her hand.
“We can still fix this,” he said, his voice dropping, softer now—dangerously so. “I would never hurt you. I can take care of you. You know that.” His grip tightened as he pulled her closer. “I still love you, Maria. I never stopped. He took you from me.”
She wrenched her hand free and stepped back. “No. Stop.” Her voice trembled. “You’re his brother. I don’t care what happened in the past—he’s my husband now. Please leave before anyone sees us and misunderstands.” Her eyes hardened. “I’m your brother’s wife.”
His jaw clenched. “So you’ll just let him hit you every time?” he snapped. “I can protect you!”
“No,” she said firmly. “Leave. Now.”
She turned away—
And he grabbed her.
He pulled her back against him, his hands unforgiving, his desperation spilling over into something darker. He kissed her—forceful, reckless. She struggled, pushing at his chest, turning her face away, whispering protests that went unheard.
He didn’t stop.
Then a small, shaken voice cut through the room. Matteo.
“Mom?”
“…Uncle?”
.
