P wilfully peers over his mountain of vegetables at a tray of tiramisu at the centre of the table, already feeling himself salivate at the sight of it. Later, mouths Romeo.
Heartily, P digs into his meal. Now and again he adds onto one of the conversations occurring, but more than anything else, he delights in the mere act of sitting with his loved ones, eating his fill and bearing witness to the incredible gift that is their joy—sharing in it. Four months ago he could’ve scarcely imagined himself being here, probably couldn’t even have fathomed an occasion such as this existing at all. But now it’s here. It’s real. He could’ve missed all of this, had he ever given up—had ever let his resolve falter.
Something trembles inside of him: a twitch, a faint twinge he cannot place instantly. For a second he worries the tuna he has eaten doesn’t agree with him, but quickly the sensation turns from a curious tingle in his chest to something much broader, spreading through his limbs with a pleasant warmth, and P realises it is something innate.
If there is any part of Carlo that can still feel this, understand this, see the world through my eyes, thinks P, I hope that he is happy, too.