A life almost perfect

Does love mean holding on, or finding the courage to let go?

A young woman stands on the verge of a heartbreaking decision. Her husband—the man who helped her heal the wounds of a toxic relationship— has been in a coma for over a year. The doctors offer no hope, urging her to authorize the removal of life support. But how do you say goodbye to someone who still feels vividly present, suspended in a limbo between life and death?

Interwoven within her story is another voice—a celebrated composer and rock star whose dazzling life seems flawless beneath the glare of fame. Through intimate diary entries, we glimpse his hidden turmoil and disturbing visions, like premonitions that hint at an inescapable fate drawing closer each day.

Music is the bridge connecting past and present, reality and memory, sparking unsettling questions about the nature of consciousness itself. Is the self merely the result of neurons firing, or is it something deeper, mysterious—something intangible that defines our very essence, transcending scientific explanation?

In a narrative brimming with emotional depth and haunting mysteries, readers are invited to contemplate what truly makes us human, unique, and undeniably alive.

Excerpt (Ad Astra edizioni)

«The day after the concert in the hall, I went, as always, to visit my mother. She was sitting on the bed, her face lit up with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“That pianist… a true talent, don’t you think?” she began, her voice warm with excitement.

I nodded, averting her gaze.

With a light sigh, she studied me with those eyes that always managed to see beyond my defenses. “Did you ask him out?” she asked, her tone seemingly casual, yet tinged with a quiet urgency.

The question caught me off guard.

“Mama…” I began.

But she interrupted me with gentle firmness. “I want someone by your side who loves you, someone who will be there for you when I’m no longer here.”

Her voice wavered, and a silent tear slid down her cheek. In that moment, I saw all the fear she tried to hide, all the pain of a mother who knew she didn’t have much time left. I held her tightly. I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I wasn’t ready.

“I don’t have his number…” I stalled.

My mother smiled, a spark of excitement in her eyes.

“I took care of that!” she announced triumphantly.

She opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a neatly folded note. “Here. Call him!” she urged, impatiently handing it to me.

I took the paper but hesitated. “What do I even say?”

“Compliment him on his performance and then improvise!” she replied, determined. Seeing my hesitation, she huffed. “At your age, I was much bolder!” she declared, punctuating her words with an exasperated gesture.

We exchanged a long look, and she seemed to understand the truth—timidity wasn’t what held me back.

After the end of my relationship with Ivano—the man whose name I can’t even bring myself to pronounce—I had never let another man near me, never allowed anyone to touch me again.

My mother had seen the bruises he left on my body, but she could never see the ones he left on my soul. That man had stolen my ability to trust, to feel worthy of love. Every slap, every kick, every venomous word, every look filled with contempt had carved an abyss inside me, eroding what little remained of my self-worth.

But what she never knew, what I never had the courage to tell her, was that when I was too high or too drunk to know what was happening, he would ‘offer’ me to his friends and take pleasure in watching as they raped me, one after another.

At first, I didn’t remember what they had done to me—just disjointed fragments that surfaced unexpectedly, bringing with them a pain too intense to bear. But slowly, the awareness began to emerge from the fog, like a monster slithering out of the shadows, pulling me into an abyss of despair. For days, I vomited everything in my stomach, unable to rid myself of the disgust I felt for my own existence. I knew I had hit rock bottom—and below that, there was nothing but void.

So one night, with the cold certainty of someone who has decided to give up fighting, I took the bottle of tranquilizers from my mother’s medicine cabinet and a bottle of whiskey. I left the house on tiptoe, making no sound, as if I were already a ghost searching for oblivion.

I went to the riverbank. There was no one around. The silence was broken only by the soft lapping of the water against the shore and the rustling of the wind through the trees. The current flowed smoothly, placidly, reflecting the moon’s light in shifting, liquid patterns. The sky was an endless stretch of stars, still and indifferent to my surrender. The night air was cold, biting—but I didn’t feel it. I was numb, as if my own pain had made me insensible to everything else.

I sat on a rock, gazing at the landscape around me, thinking how achingly beautiful it was—I didn’t deserve to be part of it. I didn’t deserve to breathe that air, to be touched by the wind, to exist beneath that same starry sky.

With surprisingly steady hands, I began swallowing the pills, one by one, washing them down with gulps of whiskey that burned my throat. I could feel the weight of my existence growing lighter, as if I were slowly dissolving.

But then, as darkness crept in, I felt something unexpected—a sudden, desperate surge for life. A deep, visceral tremor, and I realized I didn’t really want to die.

I grabbed my phone and, with trembling fingers, dialed Diana’s number.

She answered immediately, even though it was three in the morning, as if she had been waiting for my call, as if she already knew. She didn’t ask anything, didn’t hesitate for a second. She only said: “I’m coming.”

When I saw her running toward me, breathless, eyes wide with fear, something inside me shattered. Her embrace was the first warmth I felt that night—the first human touch that didn’t terrify me.

She held me tight as the tears I had kept buried for too long broke free, uncontrollable. She held me up as the world around me disappeared.

I regained consciousness with her still holding my hand, after they had pumped my stomach. She stayed with me until dawn, never leaving my side.

My mother never knew what I had tried to do.

But you… I told you everything, my love. Even about that night. I didn’t want to hide anything from you because you are the only one who has ever truly seen beyond my scars.

I still remember your gaze when I confessed my secret. There was no judgment in your eyes, only love. And then your embrace… My God, you held me so tight! As if you wanted to absorb all my pain.

Not even Diana knows the full extent of what I endured. I only told her fragments of a truth too horrific to reveal in its entirety.

But with you… with you, it was different. I opened every door of my heart, even the ones I had bolted shut with anger and shame. And you never looked away, never recoiled in disgust. You saw my most fragile self, when I was nothing but a twig broken by the wind. And you helped me stand again, rebuilding me piece by piece.

And now? Now that you can no longer answer me, how am I supposed to bear this emptiness?

How can I go on without the only man who ever loved me for who I am, with all my wounds, with all my fears?

I grasp his hand, my hope clinging to that faint contact, and I pray.

I pray as I never have before.

I pray that he can hear me.

I pray that he can come back to me.