Call Me By Your Name(2017) Apr 2026

After hanging up, Elio sat by the fireplace. As the logs hissed and the flames danced, he stared into the fire, tears streaming down his face. He remembered the heat, the water, and the boy who had once been him. The summer was over, but the version of Elio that Oliver had called into existence would remain forever.

As the summer waned, they took a final trip to Bergamo. For a few days, they were free—dancing in the streets to "Love My Way," hiking near waterfalls, and living as if time had no power over them. But the train station at Clusone eventually loomed. A final embrace, a lingering look, and Oliver was gone, headed back to the States. Call Me by Your Name(2017)

Winter arrived, coating the villa in a pale, cold light. During Hanukkah, the phone rang. It was Oliver. He was calling to say he was getting married to a woman in the States. The news was a final, cold blow to the warmth of that July. After hanging up, Elio sat by the fireplace

Oliver, a twenty-four-year-old American doctoral student, was the latest "summer guest" to stay at the Perlmans' 17th-century villa to assist Elio’s father, a professor of archaeology. He was tall, confident, and possessed a breezy nonchalance—summed up by his frequent, curt departure: "Later." The summer was over, but the version of

At first, Elio found Oliver’s confidence irritating, an intrusion on his quiet world. Yet, irritation soon curdled into fascination. He began to watch Oliver—the way he played volleyball, the way he ate his eggs, the way he wore his Star of David necklace. A magnetic pull developed between them, charged with the tension of things unsaid. They cycled through the Italian countryside, their conversations dancing around a hidden center.

Elio returned to the villa, the silence of the house now deafening. Seeing his son’s quiet devastation, Mr. Perlman sat him down for a conversation that would define Elio's life. He didn't offer platitudes; instead, he validated Elio’s pain. "We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should," he said. "But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything—what a waste!"