My name is Marco Santini.

I’m 32 years old.

I live in Milan, Italy.

And for 18 years, I’ve carried a secret that I couldn’t tell anyone.

Not because someone asked me to stay silent.

Not because I was afraid, but because what I’m about to tell you is so impossible, so inexplicable that I needed to wait until the world was ready to hear it.

Carlo Audis was my best friend.

From the time we were four years old until the day he died at 15, we were inseparable.

We grew up in the same apartment building on Via Allesandro Vulta in Milan.

Our mothers were friends.

Our families celebrated birthdays together.

We went to the same schools, played the same video games, dreamed the same childhood dreams.

But Carlo was different.

I knew it from the very beginning.

Everyone who met him knew it.

There was something about him, something I couldn’t name when I was young, something that felt like he was always half in this world and half in another.

When we were 6 years old, Carlo told me something.

It was a sunny afternoon in May 1997.

We were sitting on the swings in the playground near our building and Carlos suddenly stopped swinging, looked at me with those deep brown eyes that seemed to see through everything and said words that would echo in my mind for the next 18 years.

Marco, he said, when I die, you’re going to help people know about me.

You’re going to tell them stories.

You’re going to be my voice when I can’t speak anymore.

I remember laughing.

We were 6 years old.

Death wasn’t even a concept we understood.

I said, “Carlo, you’re not going to die.

We’re going to be old men together.

Remember? We’re going to live in the same building forever.

” Carlo smiled.

That smile he always had, that peaceful knowing smile.

And he said something I’ll never forget.

I won’t be old, Marco.

But that’s okay.

I’m going to do what I came here to do.

and then I’m going to go home and you’re going to miss me so much it hurts.

But one day you’ll understand why and you’ll tell everyone.

Then he went back to swinging like nothing happened and I being six forgot about it within an hour.

We went back to his apartment and played Super Mario 64.

His mom made us pizza.

We were just kids.

But Carlo never forgot because Carlo knew things.

things he shouldn’t have known, things that would take me years to understand.

Let me tell you about growing up with Carlo Acudis.

Because the world knows him now as Blessed Carlo Acutis, as the patron saint of the internet, as the teenager who died of leukemia and became one of the youngest saints in modern history.

But I knew him as my best friend.

I knew the boy who laughed at my stupid jokes, who beat me at every video game we played, who shared his lunch with me when I forgot mine.

Carlo wasn’t perfect.

He got frustrated sometimes when his computer crashed.

He argued with his little brother.

He complained about homework like every kid.

But there was something else always present.

A depth, a peace, a connection to something bigger.

When we were seven, Carlo made his first communion.

I remember that day so clearly.

We were both in that church, Santa Maria in Trespontina, wearing our little white shirts and ties.

But while the rest of us kids were fidgeting and looking around, Carlo was completely still during the mass.

When he received the Eucharist for the first time, I saw tears running down his face.

After the ceremony, I asked him, “Why were you crying? He looked at me with this expression of pure joy and said, “Because I just received Jesus, Marco.

Really received him.

Not like a symbol.

Really him.

His body, his blood, his soul, his divinity, everything.

How could I not cry?” I didn’t understand what he meant.

But from that day forward, Carlo went to mass every single day before school.

Every single day.

his mom would take him at 6:30 in the morning.

I asked him once, “Doesn’t it get boring?” He looked at me like I’d asked the strangest question in the world.

“Boring?” “Marco, I’m meeting with God.

I’m receiving God into my body.

How could that ever be boring?” That was Carlo.

While the rest of us were sleeping in, he was at mass.

While we were playing outside, he was spending an hour in front of the tabernacle in Eucharistic adoration.

His teachers thought he was weird.

Some kids made fun of him, but Carlo never cared what anyone thought.

When we were 10, Carlo got his first real computer.

His dad bought him a used desktop, and Carlo became obsessed, but not with games, although he loved those, too.

Carlo started teaching himself web design, HTML, CSS, JavaScript.

He learned it all from books and online tutorials.

I remember asking him, “Why are you working so hard on this website stuff?” And Carlos said something that stuck with me.

“Because the internet is a gift from God, Marco.

It’s a tool.

Most people use it for bad things or waste time.

But I’m going to use it to show people how beautiful God is.

I’m going to create a website about Eucharistic miracles from all over the world, so people can see that Jesus in the Eucharist is real.

He was 10 years old and he built a website cataloging eucharistic miracles.

While I was playing PlayStation, Carlo was documenting supernatural events where the consecrated host turned into actual human flesh or bled real blood.

He contacted churches, researched historical documents, translated texts.

His parents thought it was a phase.

My parents thought he was too serious for a kid.

But Carlo had a mission.

He knew exactly what he was here to do.

In 2005, when we were 14, things started to change.

Carlo got sick.

At first, it seemed like just a bad flu.

Fever, tiredness, no appetite.

His parents took him to the doctor.

Blood tests, more blood tests, specialists.

I remember the day in March 2006 when Carlo told me.

We were sitting in his room and he closed his laptop, turned to me with a calm expression and said, “I have leukemia, Marco.

It’s aggressive.

The doctors say I have maybe 6 months.

” I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t speak.

My best friend, my brother, and everything but blood had cancer.

Terminal cancer.

But they can treat it, right? I finally managed to say chemotherapy, radiation, something.

Carlo nodded.

They’ll try, but I already know how this ends.

What do you mean, you know? He smiled that smile again.

Remember when we were six on the swings? I told you I wouldn’t be old.

I meant it, Marco.

I’m going to die soon.

But it’s okay.

I’ve done what I came here to do.

My website is almost finished.

I’ve helped people find Jesus in the Eucharist.

And now I get to offer my suffering for the Pope and for the church and for all the young people who’ve lost their faith.

I started crying.

I couldn’t help it.

Carlo put his hand on my shoulder.

Don’t cry for me, he said.

Cry for people who live 80 years and never figure out why they’re alive.

I’m 14 and I know exactly why I’m here.

I’m the lucky one.

The next six months were the hardest of my life.

Carlo went through chemotherapy.

His beautiful hair fell out.

He lost so much weight.

His skin turned pale and yellowish.

But he never stopped smiling.

He never stopped going to mass when he had the strength.

He never stopped working on his website.

I visited him every day after school.

Sometimes he was too weak to talk much.

We’d just sit together playing video games or watching movies.

Other times he’d tell me things, deep things.

Things about God, about eternity, about suffering.

You know what I’ve learned, Marco? He said one afternoon in September 2006.

Suffering isn’t meaningless.

When you offer it to God, when you unite your pain with Jesus’s pain on the cross, it becomes redemptive.

My leukemia isn’t just a tragedy.

It’s a gift I can give.

I can offer every moment of pain for someone else’s soul.

That makes it beautiful.

I didn’t understand how he could say that, how he could call cancer beautiful.

But Carlo meant it.

He really did.

On October 10th, 2006, 2 days before he died, Carlo called me to the hospital.

He was in room 412 at San Herardo Hospital in Monza.

When I walked in, I barely recognized him.

He was so thin, so pale.

tubes and wires everywhere.

The steady beep of machines, the smell of antiseptic, but his eyes, his eyes were still bright, still full of life, still that deep brown that seemed to see everything.

“Marco,” he said, his voice weak, but clear.

“Come here.

I need to tell you something.

” I sat on the edge of his bed, holding his hand.

It was so cold.

Remember that day when we were six? The swings? I nodded, tears already forming in my eyes.

I told you that you’d be my voice, that you’d tell people my story.

It’s almost time, Marco.

I’m going home soon, tomorrow or the next day.

And I need you to promise me something.

Anything, I whispered.

Don’t tell this story right away.

Wait.

Wait until I’m beatified.

Wait until the church officially recognizes what God did through me.

Because if you tell it too soon, people won’t believe you.

They’ll think you’re making it up or exaggerating because you miss me.

But when the church says it’s real, when they investigate and find the miracles, when they declare me blessed, then you can speak.

Then people will listen.

Promise me.

I promise, I said through tears.

Carlo smiled.

Good.

And Marco, one more thing.

That day at the swings, I told you that you’d miss me so much.

It hurts.

I was right, wasn’t I? I couldn’t answer.

I just sobbed.

But I also told you that one day you’d understand why.

You’re going to understand, Marco.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

But eventually, you’ll see that God’s plan is bigger than our pain.

You’ll see that my short life accomplished more than most long lives.

And you’ll be grateful.

I promise you will.

That was the last real conversation we had.

Carlos slipped into a coma that night.

On October 12th, 2006 at 6:37 in the morning with his parents and a priest by his side, Carlo Akutus died.

I wasn’t there.

I was at home and my mother woke me up to tell me.

I remember screaming.

I remember breaking down completely.

My best friend, my brother was gone just like he said he would be at 15 years old.

The funeral was 3 days later.

The church was packed.

Hundreds of people.

Kids from school, teachers, people who knew Carlo from his website.

People whose lives he touched in ways I didn’t even know about.

During the funeral mass, people kept saying the same thing.

He was a saint.

He’s in heaven now.

He’s interceding for us.

And I wanted to scream at them.

I wanted to yell, “He was my friend.

He was 15.

He should be here.

” But then something happened during the communion when people were going up to receive the Eucharist that Carlo loves so much.

I smelled something.

A scent sweet like flowers, but not any flower I recognized.

It filled the entire church.

People looked around, confused.

Where was it coming from? And I knew.

Somehow I knew Carlo was there.

Not his body in that white casket, but him.

His soul, his presence.

He was telling us he was okay.

He was home.

After the funeral, I went into a deep depression.

I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus on anything.

My parents took me to counselors, but nothing helped.

I’d lost the person who understood me better than anyone.

the person who’d been my constant companion for 11 years.

Months passed, then years.

I went through high school in a fog.

I went to university studying communications because I didn’t know what else to do.

I got a job at a marketing firm.

I went through the motions of life, but a part of me had died with Carlo.

But something strange kept happening.

People would ask me about him.

You were Carlo Audis’ best friend, right? and they’d want to know stories.

What was he like? Was he really that holy? Did he really go to mass every day? And I’d tell them little stories, memories, moments that seemed small at the time, but had become precious.

And every time I told a story, I felt a little bit lighter, a little bit more like myself again.

In 2012, 6 years after Carlo’s death, the arch dascese of Milan opened his cause for beatatification.

They started investigating his life, interviewing people who knew him, examining his writings, his website, his actions.

They were looking for proof of heroic virtue.

I was interviewed.

They asked me hundreds of questions.

What was Carlo like as a child? How did he treat others? Did he show signs of holiness? Did he perform any miracles? I told them everything except one thing.

I didn’t mention that day on the swings because Carlo had made me promise to wait and I kept my promise.

The investigation took years.

They had to verify everything.

They needed proof of miracles attributed to Carlos intercession.

They needed medical documentation, witness testimony, scientific analysis.

In 2018, a miracle was confirmed.

A young boy in Brazil with a severe pancreatic disorder was healed after his mother prayed to Carlo and brought a relic of his clothing to touch the boy.

Doctors confirmed the healing was medically unexplainable.

And in October 2020, 14 years after Carlo died, he was officially beatified by Pope Francis.

Blessed Carlo Autis one step away from saintthood.

I was there in a cece for the beatatification ceremony.

Thousands of people, young people especially from all over the world, wearing hoodies like Carlo used to wear, holding signs that said Carlo Autis pray for us.

And during that ceremony, something happened to me.

A memory surfaced.

Not just the memory of that day on the swings, but the feeling.

I could suddenly smell that playground, see the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, hear Carlo’s voice saying those words.

You’re going to be my voice when I can’t speak anymore.

And I realized he’d been preparing me my whole life.

Every story I told about him, every memory I shared, I was already being his voice.

The pain of losing him had become the fuel for keeping his memory alive.

After the beatification, I finally felt free to share the whole story.

I started speaking at youth events, at churches, at schools, not as someone special, but as Carlos friend, the one who knew him before the world knew him.

The one who saw him as a normal kid who chose to do extraordinary things.

And you know what I discovered that day on the swings when Carlos said I’d understand why someday? He was right.

I do understand now.

Carlo didn’t live a short life.

He lived a complete life.

Every single day he lived with purpose.

He knew he was here for a reason and he fulfilled that reason.

He showed the world, especially young people, that holiness isn’t boring or outdated.

It’s alive.

It’s relevant.

It’s possible.

He showed us that you don’t need to be old to be holy.

You don’t need to be a priest or a nun.

You don’t need to perform dramatic miracles.

You just need to love God with your whole heart and use whatever gifts you have to bring others closer to him.

Carlo used technology.

He used his computer skills.

He used his love for the Eucharist.

and he changed thousands of lives, now millions.

I miss him every single day.

There are moments when I pick up my phone to call him, forgetting for a second that he’s gone.

There are times when I see something funny and think I have to tell Carlo about this and then I remember.

But I also feel him with me.

Not in a creepy way, not like a ghost, but like a presence, an assurance that he’s okay, that he’s watching over me, that he’s still my friend even though he’s on the other side of the veil.

And I’m grateful.

I’m grateful that God gave me 11 years with Carlo.

I’m grateful that I got to witness holiness up close.

I’m grateful that I got to be the best friend of a saint.

People ask me all the time.

What was the most important thing Carlo taught you? And my answer is always the same.

Carlo taught me that life isn’t about how long you live.

It’s about how deeply you love.

He taught me that every person has infinite value because they’re made in the image of God.

He taught me that the Eucharist is real, truly real, and that if we understood what we’re receiving, we’d never be the same.

He taught me that suffering can be beautiful when it’s offered for others.

He taught me that death isn’t the end, just a doorway.

He taught me that being normal doesn’t mean being mediocre.

You can be an ordinary kid who plays video games and loves pizza and still become a saint.

There’s one more thing I need to tell you.

Something I’ve never said publicly until now.

Three weeks ago, I was going through some old boxes in my parents attic.

things from my childhood.

And I found a note, a note I’d completely forgotten about.

It was from Carlo, written in his handwriting, dated October 5th, 2006.

One week before he died.

He must have given it to me, and I must have put it in my backpack and forgotten about it in [clears throat] the chaos of his death.

The note said, “Marco, if you’re reading this, I’m probably gone already.

Don’t be sad.

I’m finally home.

I got to meet Jesus face to face.