You didn't answer. I could hear you. The deep rumble of your voice was so disturbingly familiar. There was a particularly sharp stab within my chest when a high pitched feminine laugh pierced my ears. Still, I stuck the note under your door and sat. I sat on your doorstep for eight hours. I was in such a sleepy haze that there is no telling if I fell asleep or not. It was all so real, and so fake. I didn't move until I heard the slicked accent of Dino speaking to me in French. He picked me up, knowing that I didn't have the strength or will to fight. As he carried me, he told my story from his view, from the moment he met me. He even followed me to the cafe, and watched me. He always just barely escaped my eyesight. He told me of how he had watched me at your doorstep, finally coming to help me when he no longer handle watching me suffer again. I'm in his car now. He can drive almost anything. Now, he's driving to wherever the hell you aren't. That's a direct quote, or as direct as a translation can be.
I think he's mad. He keeps speaking Italian. He usually speaks Italian when he's mad. He just asked me what I was doing. I wouldn't tell him, but for my own sake, I will stop this letter and send it as soon as I can. Simone, I love you.