The Last Thought

Part One: The Boy Who Watched Too Much

Leo lived on the edge of Via del Fabbro, in a yellow apartment building with cracked plaster and a green mailbox that never quite closed. He was seventeen, walked with his head down, and always wore the same navy-blue hoodie—faded at the elbows, sleeves too long.

At 6:45 every morning, he sat by the corner café, Bar Miriam, and watched the town wake up. He didn’t drink coffee. He just sat there with a notebook and a pen that clicked too loudly.

He recorded everything:
— the exact moment the shutters of the butcher’s shop groaned open (6:58)
— how Signora Valenti always bought cherries but never ate them on the way home
— that the florist, Luca, always changed the window display on Tuesdays, without fail

He noticed more than he should. He noticed too much.

At school, he stopped raising his hand. Not because he didn’t know the answers—he always did—but because the teacher started calling him professore under her breath. At lunch, the others sat at their usual tables, talking about football, TikTok, the new pizza place. Leo sat alone, picking apart his sandwich like it held a secret.

He had no friends, but he had patterns. He watched. He thought. He filled notebooks. Four of them, thick, dog-eared, full of questions like:

Why do people say “I’m fine” when they’re not?
Why is truth heavier than a lie?

His mother noticed. She’d knock on his door and ask if he wanted to go out for a walk, or to help her water the balcony plants. Leo would nod, but not move. He felt safe in his head. Too safe.

One Friday evening, the town organized a movie night in the square—La Vita è Bella, projected onto a white sheet tied to two lamp posts. Families gathered with folding chairs and popcorn in plastic bags. Kids chased each other around the fountain.

Leo came too, alone, his hands in his hoodie pocket, notebook tucked under his arm.

Halfway through the movie, he turned around and looked at the people instead of the screen. Their faces—lit by the flickering black-and-white glow—were soft, open, unthinking. They were present. He wasn’t.

And in that moment, watching them watch joy and sorrow on a sheet in the cold, Leo felt something strange and sharp inside his chest.

A thought: They don’t know. And they’re happier than me.

Part Two: The Moment He Spoke

The next morning, Leo woke up before the church bells rang. 5:42 a.m. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes before grabbing his notebook from the floor. He didn’t write. He just held it.

By 7:00, he was outside Bar Miriam, but he didn’t sit. He stood near the trash bin, heart knocking against his ribs like it wanted out. He had decided: he would talk today. Not just answer questions in class. He would say something. Real. Honest. Something that had been circling his mind for weeks.

At school, during philosophy, Professor Zanetti wrote a question on the board:

“What makes us human?”

Hands went up. “Emotions,” said one. “Mistakes,” said another. “Love,” someone added, half-joking.

Leo’s hand rose slowly. The room stilled.

“Yes, Leo?” Zanetti asked, curious, maybe even hopeful.

Leo stood up. His voice was quiet but steady. “I think we’re human because we pretend. We pretend to be okay, to agree, to not care. We lie to protect each other. And ourselves. It’s not just emotions. It’s the mask over them.”

Silence. Someone shifted in their seat. The air felt thick.

Zanetti nodded, eyes unreadable. “Interesting.”

The bell rang. Students poured out. No one looked at him. Except one: Martina. She was the girl who sat in the back row, always drawing in her notebook. She glanced at him as she passed, then looked away quickly.

Leo sat down slowly. His fingers twitched. He didn’t feel smarter. He felt naked.

At lunch, the usual tables were full. He sat in his corner again, unwrapping his sandwich, eyes on the crumbs. Then, a shadow.

Martina stood in front of him, sketchbook in hand.

“You see things,” she said. “Like... too clearly.”

Leo looked up.

“That’s lonely, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer. She sat down anyway.

They didn’t speak much. She drew a page full of eyes. He watched the way she moved her pencil—fast, messy, alive. He didn’t feel less alone. But he didn’t feel invisible either.

And for the first time in days, his notebook stayed closed.

Part Three: The Choice

Days passed. Leo and Martina didn’t become best friends. They didn’t text all night or share secrets on rooftops. But she sat next to him during breaks, and sometimes they exchanged lines from books like they were passwords to something bigger.

One Tuesday afternoon, rain fell hard and fast over Via del Fabbro. Leo stood under the overhang outside the bakery, watching the water pour off the roofs like unraveling ribbons. Martina appeared beside him, soaked through, sketchbook under her jacket.

“Still thinking big thoughts?” she asked, breathless.

He shrugged. “Trying not to.”

She smiled sideways. “Any success?”

“Some.”

That night, Leo didn’t write in his notebook. He put it in a drawer instead, under a stack of old math tests and postcards his mother had once collected. Then he sat by the window and watched the lights flicker across the wet pavement.

He thought of all the things he understood—why people pretend, why silence stretches between words, why truth doesn’t always save you.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel the need to carry it all alone.

The next morning, he brought two cups of hot chocolate to school. One for him. One for Martina. No big gesture. No dramatic speech. Just a quiet, human act.

He still saw more than others. He still thought too much. But he was learning—slowly—that knowing everything wasn’t the goal.

Sometimes, the most important thought…
was knowing when to share the silence.