"**You got a 10, Mr. ***."
The professor's voice cut through the low murmur of the classroom. The scratching of pens stopped, and a few heads lifted from their notebooks.
He adjusted his glasses and looked again at the paper in front of him, as if making sure he had not misread the number.
"Yes," he said slowly. "A perfect ten."
The room shifted with small reactions—some impressed, some indifferent, some slightly annoyed.
The professor leaned back against his desk, folding the paper between his fingers.
"I must say," he continued, "I've been teaching for many years, and results like these are rare. Not just in this class."
He glanced around the room briefly, then returned his gaze to the student.
"Your grades are the highest in the entire STEAM program of Rovereto."
A quiet ripple spread through the class.
Someone in the back whispered something under their breath. Another student sighed and leaned back in their chair.
The professor's tone softened.
"You understand what that means, right?"
The boy didn't answer.
"With grades like these," the professor went on, "you could pursue a very virtuous career. Engineering, physics, research… maybe even medicine. Universities look for students like you. People with discipline."
He paused.
"You have talent."
The boy sat still.
His posture was straight, almost too composed, like someone who had learned long ago how to remain quiet inside a room.
Finally, he spoke.
"I don't really have big dreams, professor."
His voice was calm.
Gentle.
Almost polite.
The professor frowned slightly, thinking he had misheard.
"I'm sorry?"
The boy looked down at the desk.
"To be honest," he said, "I just want to reach twenty years old."
For a moment the professor didn't speak.
The sentence lingered strangely in the air, like something that didn't quite belong in a normal conversation.
"Twenty?" the professor repeated. "Why twenty?"
The boy shrugged faintly.
"That's my goal."
The professor studied him more carefully now.
"That's a very… small dream," he said slowly. "Why would someone with your potential aim so low?"
The boy tilted his head a little, as if considering how to explain it.
"A vase," he said quietly, "can be filled with many types of flowers."
The professor listened.
"Some are beautiful," the boy continued. "They grow well. They last a long time."
He paused.
"Others… wither after a short time."
The classroom had gone quieter again.
Inside his mind, another thought formed.
Don't cry for me.
For a brief moment, the boy stopped speaking.
The silence stretched just enough to make the professor uncomfortable.
Then suddenly the boy laughed.
"Ahaha."
It sounded light.
Almost convincing.
"I'm joking."
The tension in the room snapped.
Behind him, a couple of students burst out laughing. Someone started talking loudly about football. Another student argued about which team would win the next match. Chairs shifted, voices overlapped, someone tossed a crumpled piece of paper across the room.
The professor glanced at them.
Then he looked back at the boy.
For a moment he seemed unsure of what he had just heard.
Finally he asked, almost casually,
"Tell me something."
The boy looked up again.
"Do you like being here?"
—
Cold air moved through the empty park.
A weak streetlamp flickered above a cracked path.
On a worn wooden bench sat the boy.
Now he could finally be seen.
His hair was short and brown, uneven like he had cut it himself weeks ago. His nose was slightly large, giving his face a somewhat awkward balance. His body was in decent shape—strong arms, broad shoulders—but a small belly pressed against the thin fabric of his shirt when he leaned forward.
He wasn't very tall.
Under his eyes were deep, dark circles that made his face look older than it should.
His eyes themselves were blue.
Soft.
Almost feminine.
But right now they were dull and unfocused.
In his hand was a cheap bottle of vodka.
The label was half torn.
His fingers were cold, slightly trembling as he held it.
He took another long swallow.
The alcohol burned down his throat.
For a moment he just stared at the ground between his shoes.
Then his stomach twisted.
He leaned forward suddenly and vomited onto the pavement.
The sound was harsh in the quiet park.
He coughed, his body shaking slightly as more came up. His breath came out uneven, mixed with the bitter smell of alcohol.
When he finished, he stayed hunched forward, breathing slowly.
A thin line of saliva hung from his mouth before he wiped it with the sleeve of his jacket.
The cold air bit at his face.
His stomach still churned.
He looked down at the mess on the ground.
For a long moment he said nothing.
The bottle rested loosely in his hand now.
His shoulders sagged.
Somewhere far away, a car passed on the road.
He stared at the vodka bottle again.
His reflection in the glass looked distorted and tired.
His voice, when it came out, was barely more than a whisper.
"…Disgusting."
He swallowed hard.
His eyes watered slightly, though it wasn't clear if it was from the alcohol or something else.
"Life is disgusting."
He leaned back against the bench slowly.
The wood was cold through his jacket.
His head tilted upward toward the dark sky, but his eyes didn't seem to see anything.
After a moment, his grip loosened.
The bottle slipped from his hand and rolled against the bench with a dull clink.
He didn't bother picking it up.
He just sat there.
Quiet.
Breathing slowly.
Looking like someone who had already grown tired of existing long before reaching twenty.