I found Simona in the bathtub this morning.
Her wrists are open. The water is dark red.
She's been gone for maybe an hour. Maybe more. I don't know.
I don't know anything anymore.
Flavio is somewhere in the apartment. I haven't seen him. I can't face him.
All I can think is: I did this. My obsession. My coldness. My performance of care while actually being completely absent. I did this.
Not alone. But I did this.
Sonya was pregnant. Simona was drowning. And I was at the gym fantasizing about a different life while both of them fell apart around me.
I said I was trying. I said I was changing. I said I cared.
I was lying the whole time.
And now two people are dead because I was too selfish and too cowardly to actually be honest with anyone—including myself.
The police are coming. The doctors are coming. Everything is becoming a process that doesn't involve feeling anything.
Which is good. Because feeling anything right now would destroy me.
And I've spent my entire life avoiding destruction.
Comments
Mario, I can't reach you. Please call me. Please call anyone. You're not alone.
Survivors of suicide loss often fixate on guilt. Mario needs immediate crisis support—not an audience.
This isn't a diary entry. It's a confession. Everyone in this arc needed help sooner.
Sonya deserved better. Simona deserved better. And Mario knows it.
Too late for warnings. Just... someone be with him.
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