Chapter 3 What I see isn't real

I woke up sweating. Not from heat, but from the thick anguish that had nested in my chest like a sleeping, tense animal, ready to bite me from the inside. Outside, dawn hadn't fully broken yet, but a pale bluish light slipped through the cracks of the blinds. My throat was dry, as if I had screamed all night without making a sound.

I'd had a dream. Or a memory. Or something in between.

Vittorio was holding me. His mouth on my neck, warm, as if whispering something I couldn't hear. Then, his hand, firm, at the back of my neck. And an instant later-darkness. A fall. The sound of a lock clicking shut.

I sat up abruptly, and a wave of dizziness forced me to close my eyes. Images floated in my head like shards of glass, reflecting things I couldn't quite reach. My memory ached, as if it were a muscle pushed beyond its limit.

The door opened with that soft click I already knew. Vittorio walked in carrying a breakfast tray. Always the same: coffee, fruit, warm bread. And him, always the same: white shirt, first button undone, an expensive watch on his left wrist. Every detail about him was so precise it was repulsive-like he had rehearsed it a thousand times in front of a mirror.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked sweetly, setting the tray on the table.

"No. I dreamed about you." I looked straight at him. "You were locking me in."

He didn't look surprised. Not a single muscle in his face moved. He came closer and sat beside me on the bed.

"It's normal. The subconscious searches for exits," he whispered, almost brushing against the edge of my thoughts. "But not everything we see in dreams is real."

His closeness stirred a conflicting reaction in me: my skin tightened with fear, yet something inside me... also longed for him. I couldn't help it. It was chemical, visceral-like my body still recognized him even while my mind screamed run.

"Can I show you something?" he asked, pulling a wooden box from the shelf. "It might help you remember who you are."

"Who do you say I am?"

"Catalina Rossetti," he said, kissing my hand. "My future wife."

He opened the box. Inside was a collection of printed photographs. The first ones were of me with him: on the beach, at a café, on what looked like a sailboat. My smile was wide, my eyes bright. Was that me? Really?

One photo made me stop. We were standing in front of a mirror, arms around each other. His lips brushed my cheek. But the reflection in the glass showed something strange-my expression wasn't the same as the one on my body. In the mirror, I looked... afraid.

"Where was this?" I asked.

"In Naples. At the Hotel Excelsior, for your birthday."

"I don't remember."

"You will soon," he said softly, like a spell. Then he pulled out another photo.

My mother.

A woman with black hair and a strong expression. We were together in a kitchen. I was smiling. So was she. But something in that image hurt-hurt like a knife pressed into an old wound.

"Is she alive?"

"No," he said, with feigned sadness. "She died last year. You didn't want to talk about it afterward. It was too much."

A knot formed in my stomach. Tears threatened to surface, but I held them back.

"I don't know if I want to see more."

"You should."

He insisted on showing me a recording. He took out a tablet and played a video where I-supposedly me-was walking through a garden with him, laughing. My voice said: 'I've never been so happy.'

But it didn't sound like me. It was my face, my body... but my soul wasn't there.

"I don't remember saying that."

"You don't remember the accident either. The mind blocks what hurts it," he said, stroking my hair tenderly.

I shivered.

The warmth of his hand on the back of my neck brought the dream scene rushing back with violence: his hand there, pressing... and then the fall.

I pulled away. Got out of bed clumsily.

"I want to leave," I said. "I can't stay locked up here."

He didn't answer right away. He walked to the window and stared at the sea, as if speaking to the horizon.

"If you leave now, you could hurt yourself again. It's not the right time."

"You decide that?"

He turned. For a second, his eyes darkened-a flash of something deeper than love or concern.

"I'm taking care of you. Even if you don't understand."

I moved toward the door. He had locked it without me noticing.

"Are you keeping me here?"

"I'm protecting you."

We looked at each other in silence. A battle without words.

Then, a dull sound. A piece of paper slid under the door.

Vittorio went to pick it up, but I was faster. I opened it with trembling hands.

It only said:

"What you see is not real."

Nothing else.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

The paper shook in my hands.

"What you see is not real."

That phrase buzzed inside my skull, as if someone had written exactly what I felt but didn't dare to say out loud. Vittorio approached slowly, as if afraid to scare me-or afraid of what I might do with that scrap of paper.

"Who left this?" I asked, my voice now dry and sharp, like it had cracked in my throat.

"I don't know," he replied. "No one comes in here who shouldn't. Maybe it's part of your... projections. Could you have written it yourself?"

"Why would I do that?"

He shrugged, wearing an expression of false compassion.

"It wouldn't be the first time."

That sentence made me tremble. What other things had I supposedly done that he could now use as arguments to question my sanity?

I clenched the paper in my fist.

"I want to see the security cameras."

"What cameras?"

"The ones in the hallway. Or in this room. I know they're there."

Vittorio sighed, stepping even closer. His breath brushed my neck. I felt it slide over my skin like a warm liquid-both nauseating and addictive.

"Catalina..." he whispered. "You're upset. You're tired. You're sabotaging yourself, like before. You need to rest. Do you remember what happened the last time you didn't listen to me?"

An image struck me like lightning: the edge of a bathtub, red water, my wrist-or maybe just a flash. But something burned on my skin, as if the blood were still there.

I didn't know if that memory was real.

"I don't remember anything," I said, barely above a whisper.

He hugged me from behind. His chest against my back, his arm across my stomach.

"Then let me take care of you," he murmured.

I didn't resist. But I didn't give in either. I stayed still. Like a statue trapped in time.

That day, I never saw the paper again. Vittorio had made it disappear, like so many other things. But I didn't forget it. The phrase repeated itself:

And then, little by little, the cracks began to widen.

It started with the photos.

I looked at them again that night, while he slept in the armchair. One picture in particular caught my attention: me, in what seemed to be a greenhouse, watering flowers. But there was a mirror behind me. And in it, the reflection was different. Slightly misaligned. As if the woman in the mirror wasn't entirely in sync with me.

Digital editing? A photomontage?

Or worse-what if that woman wasn't me?

I closed my eyes and tried to remember.

The humidity of the greenhouse. The smell of damp earth. The hum of an insect.

And then, a dull sound. A blow. Someone pulling me by the arm.

I opened my eyes. My breathing was ragged. Sweat drenched the back of my neck.

Who was I, beneath all of this?

The next morning, a new routine. Vittorio with breakfast. His calm voice. His gentle questions.

"What did you dream about today?"

"Flowers," I lied.

He looked at me, as if he knew I wasn't telling the truth.

"And me?"

"Always."

He smiled. Kissed my forehead.

"Today you're going to see something special."

He took out a worn, old black leather album and opened it in front of me.

"We haven't looked at this together in a long time."

The photos were different. Not just of us, but of places. Sites I barely recognized.

A field of poppies. An old library. An unmade bed. A wooden cabin.

"We were happy there," he said.

I touched a photo. In it, I wore a white dress. I was barefoot, running down a hallway.

Then, a flash.

A scream.

My own scream.

I looked at the image again. There was something wrong with my face. My smile was too wide. Forced. Like... programmed.

I pulled away from the album.

"These photos are wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"That's not me. Or it's me, but... edited. Manipulated."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. Why would someone slip a note under the door telling me this isn't real?"

Vittorio watched me in silence.

"Because you're sick."

That sick hit me like a bucket of ice water.

"What if I'm not?"

"You are. That's why you tried to kill yourself."

"What if that's a lie too?"

A heavy silence fell between us.

Then he stood, walked to the shelf, took a metal box, and placed it in front of me.

"You want to know the truth? Open it."

I did.

Inside, there was a bottle of pills, a crumpled sheet of paper with my name written in red ink, and a journal.

I opened the journal.

The handwriting was mine.

But it wasn't my voice.

I read meaningless sentences, crossed-out words, torn-out pages. Fragments: "He's killing me slowly," "Today he said he loved me again," "I don't know if it's real or if he just wants to destroy me."

The last page had a handwritten warning:

"If you're reading this, don't trust him. And don't trust yourself either."

The world spun.

I stood up, unsteady.

"What is this?" I asked.

Vittorio stepped closer. His voice was a sharp whisper.

"Your story. The one you wrote."

"Why did you hide it?"

"Because you didn't know what you were doing."

"Or because I did know?"

He looked at me with a strange sadness, as if deep down he regretted something.

"Catalina, I just want you to be happy. Even if you have to forget everything to achieve it."

The sincerity in his voice disarmed me. For a second, I believed him. For a second, I wanted to believe him.

Then-the sound.

A bang.

Something or someone had hit the hallway window.

I ran. Vittorio tried to stop me, but I pushed him away.

The window was cracked. On the floor, a stone. Tied to it, another note.

With clumsy fingers, I untied it.

"You're not crazy. He's making you doubt."

I hid it in my pocket before he could see it.

I turned. He was behind me, wearing an expression I couldn't read.

"What was that?"

"A bird. Nothing."

He believed me. Or pretended to.

That night I didn't sleep. I pretended to until I heard his heavy breathing.

I took the journal, hid it under the mattress. Checked my phone again. The photos. The videos. Some were obvious fabrications-errors like duplicated clocks, mismatched shadows, my face superimposed.

But there was one that was real.

A selfie video.

My voice, my face, my panic.

"I'm recording this in case everything gets erased. If you're watching this... run. He doesn't love you. He needs you broken. If you doubt yourself, you've already lost half the battle. Don't forget what you felt the first time you woke up. The fear. That fear is the key. That's real."

The video cut off with a blow.

I fell back.

And in that moment, I knew I had to leave.

That everything was a painted-over prison.

The next day, Vittorio took me to what he called "the garden of memories." A hidden place behind the house, covered in exotic flowers and marble benches. The air smelled of jasmine-and of lies.

"You used to come here to write," he said. "This was your happy place."

I sat down. Looked at the sky. The same sky I must have seen when I tried to escape.

"Did you lock me up?"

Vittorio tensed. He didn't answer.

"If you really love me, let me remember on my own. Without pushing me. Without controlling me."

He leaned toward me.

"If I leave you alone, you'll break."

"Maybe I need to break," I whispered. "To know who I am."

His expression hardened. For the first time, I saw him as he was. Not as my savior, not as my fiancé.

But as my jailer.

When we returned, my bedroom door was ajar.

Inside, someone had rummaged through the mattress.

The journal was gone.

I turned to him.

"Was it you?"

"No."

But something flickered in his face.

Before he could respond, we heard a sound downstairs.

A door slamming.

Footsteps.

A voice.

"Catalina?"

It was a woman's voice. Young.

I ran to the stairs. Vittorio caught up to me.

"Don't go down!" he shouted, gripping my arm tightly.

"Who's there?!" I screamed, desperate.

"Catalina! Don't believe anything! You were my sister! He erased you!"

And then-

A gunshot.

A scream.

Silence.

Vittorio shoved me back.

"It was an intruder. Doesn't matter who it was. Everything's fine."

My legs buckled.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't look.

I could only think about what I had just heard:

Sister.

He erased you.

And I knew everything had just changed.