What speaks today are the notebooks, those pages written by Paolo. The ones who never made a noise, who never interrupted a lesson, who never disturbed anyone. Yet inside, perhaps, there was everything. The struggle of living, the fear, the loneliness, the need to be seen.
Today those words are read one by one by a graphologist psychologist appointed by the family, to try to reconstruct what Paolo was unable to fully say. To understand if in those lines there were requests for help that remained suspended, if there were wounds spoken in a low voice, if there was already the tiredness of someone who no longer feels safe.
In the meantime, the head teacher of the institute Paolo attended was temporarily suspended. A necessary gesture, because when a fourteen-year-old boy dies we cannot pretend that it is just a private tragedy.
It is the sign that something must be looked at thoroughly, without shortcuts. Paolo did not die suddenly and now the Prosecutor’s Office is trying to understand if someone lit or fueled that darkness, if there was instigation, if there were omissions, if there were closed doors in the face of a fragility that only asked for protection.
The school and the family continue to tell two stories that do not meet. But the facts begin to take shape: a suspension, an investigation, a diary that becomes testimony. It’s as if someone is finally trying to listen to Paolo when Paolo can no longer speak.
Every word he wrote now weighs like a trace of life. It was his attempt to say “I am there” in a world that perhaps didn’t stop enough to look at him. So let’s stop and ask ourselves this question: how capable are we of noticing a silent pain that doesn’t shine through? How many times do we confuse goodness with strength, sensitivity with weakness, silence with the absence of problems?
We want to see the suspension of the manager not only as an administrative act, but also as a crack that could open up in indifference.
