Luca stopped tuning his strings. That song was the soundtrack to a summer that felt both a lifetime ago and like it happened yesterday. It was the summer he met Elena.

She had laughed, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the bass. "I'm not afraid of the water, Luca. I’m afraid of the quiet."

As the train pulled out of the station, Luca leaned his head against the glass. He pulled out his headphones and let the music wash over him one more time. The synths felt like a heartbeat. He wasn't sure what he would say when he saw her at her door in the morning, but for the first time in months, the quiet didn't feel heavy. It felt like a beginning.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the pines of Fregene, casting a long, amber glow over the cluttered patio where Luca sat with his guitar. In the kitchen, the radio was a low hum of chatter until a familiar, synth-heavy melody cut through the static. It was "Non Avere Paura."

For the next three months, they lived inside that song. It played in the background of midnight drives down the coast, during rainstorms that trapped them in his tiny Fiat, and over the speakers of every bar in Trastevere. The lyrics became a promise: Noi ci saremo, comunque vada. We will be there, no matter what happens.

He grabbed his jacket and his keys. The drive to the station was a blur of neon signs and Roman traffic. He didn't call her. He didn't text back. He just bought a one-way ticket North.

They had met at a crowded beach club, the kind where the air smells like coconut oil and cheap Aperol. He remembered her standing by the shoreline, her hair windswept and her eyes fixed on the horizon as if she were looking for something the rest of them couldn't see. When the chorus of Tommaso Paradiso’s anthem swelled through the speakers, he had found the courage to walk up to her. "Don't be afraid," he had joked, nodding toward the lyrics.

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