LastbutnotAlise

 "Feliciano can I ask you a question?" A happy-go-lucky italian lifted his head from his bowl of pasta to see his friend (your name) using his computer. "(N)-(Your name)!? How'd you ah get in my house-" "Are Italian's all loud?" Feliciano looked almost offended. "N-no. Bu-but why are you-" "Is it true most to all italians are fat and hairy?" The italian man's eyes widened. His brows then made a depressed look. "No (Your name)! See! Look at me!" (Your name) turned to see her italian friend point to himself, and taking a look at hm she knew that wasn't true. Well..for him at least. "Is that all (your name)? I would like to-" (Y

He was a dreamer, I was not. He appreciates everything, I didn't. He sees life with colours, I see it with darkness. That's why I keep wondering, how? How did he become my last and only love? His small brown eyes met mine during the meeting for young men soldiers. The war was at its peak and involved countries desperately needed men. I signed up because life for me is nothing and so I might as well waste it with honour. He, on the other hand, joined the army because he was forced to do so. Feliciano was a photographer. His first love was his camera. He showed me some of his pictures while guarding our posts against the enemies. He tells me

"Are you okay?” Oh, how you hated that question. It was simple and innocent, yet utterly devastating. It weaseled its way through the cold steel walls that you had constructed within yourself to keep others from coming in and getting to know you, from understanding the things that went on in your mind. Somehow, though, every time you answered that tiny, insignificant question, the more often it seemed to appear in your daily life. “You look so sad, bella! Is something bothering you?” – said by an optimistic man with a thick Italian accent who worked at the small restaurant down the street with the chocolate covered m