My Passport Back To Venice

Chapter 2d - Only The Wall Between Us

The word had hung between us and the bridge went quiet again. But it was not the same quiet as before. Before had been waiting. This was settling. I kept my hand on the cold stone railing. I did not look at him right away. If I did, I might ruin it. So I watched the water instead. A gondola slipped under the bridge without a song, just the dip of the oar. The lamplight caught the damp in his hair. He was shivering. I could see it in the line of his shoulders, the way he kept shifting his weight like the stone was stealing heat from his feet.

“You were cold,” I said. My voice came out rough from not using it.

He started to lie. I saw it in his mouth. Then he did not. Good. I pushed off the railing. The newspaper under my arm crinkled. Loud. Stupid. I did not offer it to him. I did not offer my coat either. I just stepped a little closer and held my side out. Not touching. Just leaving space. A space he could step into if he wanted. If he did not, I would still be there.

He did not move at first. He was studying my profile like he was trying to decide if I was safe. I kept my eyes on the canal and gave him time.

“Deal,” he said. Quieter this time. Not about the frittata. About the space. I did not grin. Did not make a joke. I just shifted my weight a fraction, made the space bigger. Waited.

Fondamenta del Soccorso, off Campo Santa Margherita.

I led him there because I knew it. A short stretch of stone, a low brick wall, one streetlamp. No bars. No noise. Just water and moored boats bumping soft. There was a step built into the wall. People sat there when home felt too soon. I sat. I left a hand’s width of cold stone between us. For a while I did not talk. I could hear him breathing. I could hear the cat picking its way along the wall. My ribs still felt stupid-tight from the bar, from buying frittata I was not hungry for.

“You know what was stupid,” I said to the water, not to him. “I thought kindness was fixing things. Saying the right thing. Making it okay.”

I picked at the corner of the newspaper. The greaseproof paper was still warm through it.

“But you were hungry. And I did not fix anything. I just had frittata. And you took it anyway.”

He was quiet so long I thought I had said the wrong thing.

I walked out. I said I hated lying down. I chose the lights. None of that was not kind.

“I know,” I said. “And I still came.”

I turned my head. The lamplight hit his face and for once he did not flinch from being looked at. My chest did something stupid at that.

“Maybe kindness was just staying,” I said. The words felt too big in my mouth. “Even when the other person did not know how to be looked at yet. Even when they said stupid things.” I nudged the newspaper with my knuckle. Proof I was still there.

“I did not know how to do it right either. But I was trying.”

He did not answer. He did not have to. The wind came off the canal and I saw his jaw tighten. Cold. I stood. No question. No big gesture. I just shifted my weight and waited half a beat to see if he would stand too. He did.

Campo Santa Margherita was emptying out. Chairs were being stacked. Someone was laughing too loud by the fountain. I walked on his left, close enough that our sleeves brushed when we turned a corner. I did not reach for his hand. I did not. I just kept my pace steady so he did not have to rush. The calli were narrow and dark, stone slick from the damp. I did not point. Did not guide. I just walked, and he matched me. That was enough. Third floor. Green shutters. A door that stuck. I got the key out before we reached the steps because my hands were shaking and I did not want him to see. I did not say “come in.” I did not say “stay.” I just held the door open and looked at him. The same way I had looked at him on the bridge when I slid the paper across the stone.

He stepped inside. The hallway smelled like old wood and the soup I had left on the stove that morning. I closed the door behind him. Quiet. No click. No lock. No kitchen. No table. Just him, there. And me, learning how to stay.

I did not say anything about sleeping arrangements. I just pointed down the hall. Left room was mine. Right room was his. There was a wall between us. Thin. Old plaster. I could hear him move his bag onto the chair in there. Hear the sigh he tried to hide. I lay on my bed in the dark. Coat still on. I did not light the lamp. The sheets smelled like soap and something I could not name. His frittata sat heavy in my stomach. My chest felt worse. For a while it was just the house sounds. The drip in the sink. The way the wind found the gap under the door. Then I heard him shift on the mattress. The springs complained. Same sound my bed made.

“Filippo?” His voice came through the wall. Muffled. Like he was talking to the plaster instead of me.

I sat up. My back was to the wall. I put my palm flat against it. Cold. “I was here.” Silence. “I did not know how to sleep without running.”

I closed my eyes. The wall was between us but I could hear every breath he took.

“I did not know how to sleep without you leaving.” Another silence. Longer this time. It broke in the middle.

"I looked at Florence’s picture for seven years." My voice came out slow. It hurt to say it. "It was easier than letting a real person disappoint me."

I pressed my forehead to the wall. The plaster scraped my skin.

"I was going to disappoint you." The words scraped my throat.

“I know,” Thomas said. Quiet. Not cruel. Just true. “I probably would have disappointed you too.” The lamp outside in the street flickered. Light bled through the gap under my door and stopped at the wall. It did not cross it.

“You were still here though.” My voice cracked on the last word.

“I was still here.” His voice came through the plaster.

I heard the mattress move. I thought he was lying down again. On his back, same as me. Staring at the same ceiling, just on the other side. We did not say goodnight. We did not say I was sorry. We just breathed. Him on his side of the wall. Me on mine. Both pretending sleep would come if we did not move. The wall broke us. But for the first time, the wall was also the only thing keeping us from running. I fell asleep to the sound of him breathing through plaster. And when I woke up at 3am, he was still breathing.