Davide Marchisio

There are people who enter your life all of a sudden. And then there are those who have always been there. Davide Marchisio belonged to the second category. I didn't remember the day we met. I only remembered that he had always been there. The first matches watched from the stands with our fathers. The races down the corridors of the sports center. The summers by the sea. The Christmases spent all together. The family photos in which, without fail, we ended up side by side. For twenty years, our story had been made of simple moments. Of hands that reached for each other without thinking. Of spontaneous hugs. Of calls at any hour. Of that familiarity that is born only when a person grows up alongside you. And yet there had always been something neither of us had ever had the courage to say. Because it was easier to pretend. Easier to convince ourselves that it was fine this way. Then I left for New York. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Enough to understand that some people can be on the other side of the world and still occupy every thought of yours. When the plane landed in Turin and I saw the mountains beyond the window, I understood I was coming home. But it wasn't just Turin. It was him. What I didn't know was that, while I was trying to convince myself that nothing between us would ever change... Davide had already made a decision. If this time he didn't find the courage to confess what he felt, he would lose me forever. And he was no longer willing to let me go.

Updated September 23, 2026