Ezra had spent weeks preparing for the Quarantinemas py. Every night, he rehearsed his lines in front of the mirror, in his bedroom, and even in the shower—just in case stage fright tried to creep in. He was ready. He had to be.

  The py was a ridiculous comedy about Santa Cus earning his "Essential Worker" license so he could deliver presents during Quarantinemas. It was over-the-top and silly, but Ezra loved it. He loved the script, the absurd premise, the chance to own the stage and make people ugh.

  And Julie was in the audience.

  That meant everything.

  As the py started, everything went perfectly. The lights shone down, the props were in pce, and the first few scenes rolled by like clockwork. Ezra, in full Santa gear, strode onto the stage with the confidence of a seasoned performer, delivering his lines exactly as he had practiced.

  But then it happened.

  A single moment of silence.

  An awkward pause where there shouldn’t have been one.

  His next line? Gone.

  Ezra’s mind, once so sharp, suddenly bnked. He could feel the heat from the stage lights intensify, like they were exposing him rather than illuminating him. His breath caught in his throat. His hands felt too stiff, too heavy.

  The silence stretched.

  The audience began to shift uncomfortably.

  Then, he saw her—Julie, in the crowd.

  And she cringed.

  Not cruelly. Not with malice. But it was enough. Enough to take the panic already forming inside him and turn it into full-blown fear.

  He had wanted to impress her. He had wanted her to see this part of him and understand.

  Now? He felt like a fool.

  Then, suddenly—

  “Is that a candy cane in your pocket, or are you just happy to see Mrs. Cus?”

  The entire room exploded in ughter.

  Ezra snapped back to reality just in time to see Brandon, all 6’3” of him, saunter onto the stage wearing the frilliest, most ridiculous Mrs. Cus costume imaginable.

  It wasn’t part of the script.

  And yet, there he was, making his grand entrance, completely unbothered by the absurdity of it all.

  Ezra’s heart was still racing, his mind still clouded, but the audience’s ughter broke the tension.

  Brandon wasn’t just saving the scene—he was saving him.

  Ezra swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to py along.

  Brandon, fully committed to his role, leaned into Ezra, batting his fake eyeshes in the most dramatic way possible.

  “Come now, dear Santa,” he cooed, voice dripping with exaggerated affection. “Tell me, have you been naughty or nice this year?”

  Ezra, still half in a daze, muttered, “Uh… mostly nice?”

  Brandon wiggled his fake hips. “Good enough for me.”

  More ughter from the audience.

  The scene was supposed to end with a small, staged kiss between Santa and Mrs. Cus, but no one had anticipated this version of the scene.

  Brandon, ever the showman, held up Santa’s hat in front of their faces, making exaggerated smooching noises while waving to the crowd behind it.

  The ughter peaked.

  Ezra, meanwhile, had never felt more humiliated in his life.

  It was all pretend. It was a joke. But something about it felt too real, too raw. His nerves still buzzed, his hands still felt wrong.

  Then, from the corner of his eye—movement.

  He turned his head just as the scene ended.

  Ezra’s eyes darted toward the audience, heart hammering against his ribs. The sound of ughter filled the room, swelling like a wave he had no control over. His breath hitched when he saw Julie—ughing.

  His stomach twisted. Was she ughing at him or at the scene? The logical part of his brain tried to reason with him—it was funny. Bruiser was being ridiculous, everyone was ughing. But the emotions flooding his system weren’t listening to logic.

  All he could see was her expression, the way she covered her mouth, shaking her head, eyes crinkled with amusement. It should have been a good thing. Should have been relieving. But instead, it felt like the walls were closing in, the spotlight burning hotter, and the ughter warping into something else entirely. Something that wasn’t lighthearted. Something that felt like mockery.

  And suddenly, the scene wasn’t fun anymore.

  The appuse faded into memory, repced by the soft hum of the car engine as his father drove them home.

  Seth gnced at Ezra, waiting for him to speak first.

  Ezra didn’t.

  The weight of the night pressed against his chest, his mind repying the scene over and over.

  He should have handled it better.He should have remembered his lines.He should have been stronger.

  “Wanna talk about it?” Seth finally asked.

  Ezra shook his head, staring out the window. “Not really.”

  His father nodded, not pushing.

  The rest of the drive was silent.

  Ezra needed space.

  Quarantinemas gave him exactly that.

  He spent the break in the countryside, back at Nonna’s house, surrounded by snow-covered woods and quiet mornings.

  The air was cold and crisp, the kind that stung his lungs in the best way when he took deep breaths outside.

  It helped. A little.

  But he still couldn’t shake the feeling of failure.

  Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Julie’s face in the audience.

  The way she had cringed.

  The way she had looked away.

  Was she embarrassed for him?

  Or was she embarrassed of him?

  He didn’t know. And that was the worst part.

  His father’s voice echoed in his mind. “Wanna talk about it?”

  He hadn’t wanted to. Not then.

  But now?

  Now, maybe he needed to.

  Because for the first time in a long time, Ezra wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

  The countryside of Turin was quiet under the weight of winter, the rolling hills buried beneath soft bnkets of snow. The world outside felt hushed, as if nature itself had slowed down, settling into a long, thoughtful pause.

  Inside Nonna’s cozy home, the scent of wood smoke and fresh herbs lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of the crackling firepce. The dim light flickered across the kitchen table, where Ezra sat, poking absently at his food.

  Nonna, busy chopping vegetables for the evening stew, gnced at him.

  “You are too quiet,” she said, not looking up from her work. “Too much thinking. It makes a boy’s head heavy.”

  Ezra let out a small breath. He should’ve known she’d notice.

  There was no fooling Nonna Francesca—not in this house.

  She moved with the practiced patience of someone who had seen too many seasons come and go, stirring the pot on the stove before finally sitting across from him. She wiped her hands on her apron, then rested her chin in her palm, watching him the way only grandmothers could—with knowing eyes.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  Ezra hesitated. He hadn’t told his father much about the py, not really, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to talk about it.

  But Nonna’s kitchen had always been a pce where secrets felt safe.

  He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s stupid.”

  “Ah,” Nonna nodded, as if she already knew where this was going. “The stupid things are always the ones that take up the most space in our minds.”

  Ezra huffed a small ugh despite himself.

  She folded her arms. “Start from the beginning.”

  So he did.

  The py. The stage fright. The ughter.

  Julie.

  By the time he finished, he was staring at his hands, his mind still running in circles, still trapped in that moment. “I know it doesn’t matter,” he admitted. “I know no one’s sitting at home thinking about it. But it just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It won’t go away.”

  Nonna was quiet for a long moment. Then, she pushed back from the table and stood.

  “Come,” she said, motioning for him to follow.

  Ezra frowned. “Where?”

  “To the fire,” she said simply.

  Curious, he followed her into the living room, where the firepce crackled softly. Nonna lowered herself into her favorite chair, gesturing for him to sit on the floor beside her.

  Then, she began.

  “There was once a king,” she started, her voice smooth, practiced, the kind that had told a hundred bedtime stories before this one.

  “He ruled over a great and powerful empire, but he had one terrible fw—he was obsessed with himself.”

  Ezra smirked slightly. “Sounds like some people I know.”

  Nonna gave him a knowing look but continued.

  “This king had a grand mirror, taller than a man, set in the heart of his pace. Every morning, before he spoke to his advisors, before he held court, he would stand in front of it and study his reflection.

  He would turn his head this way and that, checking every detail. Was his crown sitting just right? Was his beard full enough? Did his robes make him look strong, or weak?

  He became so consumed by his own appearance, so certain that every little fw would be noticed, that he stopped leaving his pace.

  ‘If my people see me looking anything less than perfect,’ he told himself, ‘they will think me unworthy.’

  And so, he stayed locked inside, fixated on himself, afraid of what others might see.”

  Ezra leaned against the couch, arms resting over his knees. “Let me guess—he loses the kingdom?”

  Nonna smiled, her eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, no, caro. He was a good king in many ways. He still ruled, still gave orders. His empire prospered. But here’s the thing.” She leaned in slightly.

  “One day, the mirror cracked.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “And the king,” she said, “was forced to look beyond his own reflection.”

  He frowned slightly. “I don’t get it.”

  Nonna chuckled softly, tapping a finger against his knee. “Listen, Ezrino.”

  “The king, for the first time in his life, looked past himself—past the walls of his pace, past his own fears. And you know what he saw?”

  Ezra shook his head.

  “He saw a world that did not revolve around him.”

  Ezra blinked.

  Nonna smiled. “He saw that his people were not studying him as he had studied himself. They were living their lives—working, loving, ughing, worrying about their own reflections in their own mirrors.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “And that is where you find yourself now, no?”

  Ezra stared into the fmes, digesting the meaning behind the story.

  He had spent days trapped in his own head, turning over every detail of that night, as if every pair of eyes in the audience had been watching him as closely as he watched himself.

  But they weren’t.

  Not really.

  Julie had ughed—but had she been ughing at him?

  Or had she simply been caught up in the moment like everyone else?

  The difference was in his mind.

  He exhaled, rubbing his hands together. “So, what—you’re saying people don’t think about me as much as I think they do?”

  Nonna chuckled. “Ezrino, people have far too much in their own heads to carry every little thing they see. You think too much about yourself, and it makes your world feel small. But in reality?”

  She gestured toward the window, where the night stretched beyond the hills. “The world is big, and most people? They are too busy with their own lives, their own worries. Unless you are their friend or their enemy, they will not carry you long.”

  Ezra let the words settle in.

  Unless you are their friend or their enemy, they will not carry you long.

  It made sense.

  It wasn’t cruelty—it was just how people worked.

  The brain could only hold so much.

  “I guess that makes sense,” he admitted.

  Nonna smiled, patting his cheek. “It is human nature. We notice much, but we do not keep much. If we did, our heads would be too full, and we would burn up from the inside out.”

  Ezra chuckled at the thought. “So, what—you’re saying I should just let it go?”

  She gave a small shrug. “I am saying you should remember this: No one watches you as closely as you watch yourself. The moment is gone. Only you are still holding onto it.”

  Ezra sat with that for a long moment.

  And for the first time since the py, he felt like he could breathe again.

  Nonna stood, brushing off her apron. “Now. Eat your food before it gets cold.”

  Ezra smiled.

  Maybe he wasn’t the king of an empire.

  But tonight? He had finally stepped away from his mirror.