Chapter 11
Luca
“Hi, Nonna.” I greet my grandmother after she answers three calls in.
“Ciao, Luca. How are you?” Her accent wraps around the words, reminding me of core memories.
“I’m feeling ok. I just wanted to call you because it's been ages since we talked.” I force a smile into my voice.
“Well, that’s not my fault, is it?” Her sarcasm makes me chuckle.
I love my Italian grandmother more than I can put into words.
She’s funny, and I wouldn’t be me without her.
Growing up, any visit from her was the best time ever. She has this way of turning ordinary moments into little adventures, leaving the rest of the world behind.
I remember one particular visit better than the other ones.
It was winter, and the mountains were heavy with snow.
I grew up basically walking through the mountains to get to school.
One morning, she woke us at four a.m., before the sun dared to rise. My siblings and I groaned, but she laughed and shoved us out the door. My parents had no idea.
That was always part of the thrill.
We climbed a hill, shivering, still half asleep. She had brought a small breakfast, and we ate in the cold as the sky turned pale pink, the sun slowly stretching across the horizon. Afterward, we rolled down the snow-covered slope until we were dizzy and laughing so hard it hurt.
That memory feels like pure magic.
Every memory with her feels like that. She has this way of making the most ordinary things feel so amazing.
But the real power is that she made some horrible memories feel bearable.
I love her for that.
“Sorry, Nonna,” I say, my voice catching. “I’ve been so busy with volleyball and life in general. Finding time is hard.” I pause, swallowing the guilt.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get to the good stuff. How’s volleyball?” Her voice lifts instantly, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
She loves it when I am happy. Loves it more than she will ever admit. But I know the truth: my happiness always has a price.
I play not just for me, but for her; for the memory of Nonno, who had been a champion before tragedy stole him away.
Nonna always told me I reminded her of him.
So, somewhere in my early teenage years, the love I had for volleyball, the small passion that I enjoyed doing, grew heavy with obligation — a way to make her smile.
I felt obligated to give back for all the joy she had poured into my childhood, and the only way to repay joy is to give it back.
So I did, every day, I would go to train and practice, and when she saw me getting closer and closer to my grandfather’s lever, she would smile more and more often.
“It’s going well,” I say, trying to make the excitement in my voice sound real. “I’m in the middle of a tournament, in the U.S.A!”
“Isn’t that good news!” She cheers. “You should come celebrate!”
“You know I can’t, Nonna. I love you, but I’m so busy I can barely sleep.”
It’s true, but that’s not the reason I gave her that excuse.
“Well, the moment you find even three days, you come see your Nonna. She’s getting tired of life, you know.”
A death joke.
Just like old times.
“Nonna, don’t even joke like that. You know I hate it.”
“Please.” Her voice gets softer. “I might joke, but I do miss you, Lulu. You’re my precious, firstborn, grandson.”
“Yeah. I love you too.” I whisper
“Call me when you have time. I want updates.”
“I will,” I say, forcing a laugh. And then I hang up.
I stare at the ceiling, but the white paint slowly blurs into nothing as my thoughts swallow me.
I wish people could love me for more than volleyball. For more than just how many points I score.
But people just can’t — or maybe they could, if I had any other qualities worth noticing.
More than just numbers and tricks.
I wish that I could have one conversation that doesn’t involve volleyball.
The truth is, the only people who I know love me purely for me are my friends, and even they know me through volleyball.
My parents started paying attention only once I became known.
I was never close to my siblings.
My brother and I competed constantly; my parents made everything a contest, and the reward was their love.
As toxic as it seems, it’s the reality of my childhood.
Their love was earned.
My sister is thirteen years younger, a bright little presence, but not someone I ever really connected with.
It’s complicated has always been my explanation.
My family is complicated.
The cruelest part is that I probably would have gotten into volleyball anyway.
The thing is, in that case, I would be playing simply for the joy of it.
The points would only be celebrated for one night, then I would go back to myself, the human, not the charts.
But I never do.
I can’t.
I play for bigger reasons — reasons tangled with grief, obligation, and responsibility.
And that makes every victory a slightly heavier thrill than it is.
I get up and reach for my phone.
Tilly texted me.
I managed to hide Tilly everything from Matt while setting up, which felt impossible.
I didn't really need to, because Yana and Zara probably saw everything, and will be talking about it, but I didn’t need him to see the stupid grin while I was writing each note.
I also know for a fact that I like Tilly. She plays on my mind more than I want to admit.
Being around her is a constant exercise in self-control. I keep reminding myself to smile, laugh, and not act weird.
But when I’m away from her, I let myself grin and not have to make stupid excuses.
I let myself think of her as more, and I don’t feel guilty for it.
Everything I told her on the message, all of it is true. I don’t regret sending it to her.
I don’t regret anything when it comes to her.
Tills:
Check this out!
I open the picture. It’s a frame overflowing with at least half of the notes I wrote for her.
She added little stickers around it.
Me:
Tills, that looks so cool!
Me:
Where are you gonna hang it?
I feel my heart swell a little.
All those hours I spent writing the notes, and she puts them in a frame and decorates it.
Tilly is the kind of person who never puts herself first, because in her mind, that's not an option.
I have known her for five years, and I have observed a lot of small habits she has.
Not on purpose, but I’m not complaining. All of it is put in the space reserved for her in my mind.
For example, her laugh changes slightly depending on why she’s laughing.
Or when she zones out, I can tell what’s going through her brain by what patterns she’s drawing on her arm or leg.
It kills me every time she puts herself down, and she does it so often that she doesn’t even realize it.
So, I decided to remind her of her worth.
I meant it when I said she deserves every second. She deserves all the time in the world.
Tills:
In my room, obvi.
Tills:
No offense, but I want them all to myself.
I laugh.
This girl, she really is special.