You watch Mattheo pacing by the window, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I can’t…” he mutters under his breath. “I can’t stand it when people yell.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Nobody’s yelling right now.”

His laugh is bitter. “I know. But somehow… I do it anyway.” He presses both palms to his temples and shakes his head. “I don’t even mean to. It just… comes out.”

“It’s exhausting,” he admits finally. “Like living in a cage with invisible bars I keep building myself.”

You nod. “Crowds?”

He laughs softly. “I hate them. But I… I love parties. Go figure.” His fingers drum against the window sill.

“You work out,” you say gently. “That helps, right? With the anxiety, I mean.”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. Blowing off steam. Keeps the anxiety from devouring me whole. But sleep? Forget it. Insomnia comes for me like a hungry wolf.”

You can see the fight in him. “And you never use magic in fights.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t trust myself. One wrong spell… one snap of temper, and I’d…” He trails off, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket.

After a while, he flopped down beside you and leaned against your shoulder. Minutes pass in silence, the warmth of the fire filling the room. Gradually, his breathing becomes regular, and you realise that he has fallen asleep. You don't move, allowing him to rest after struggling with insomnia for so long.

Suddenly, a sharp scream cuts through the quiet. He jerks awake with wide eyes and a heaving chest.

“It’s… it’s nothing,” he pants, but you know better.

He swallows, his gaze darkening. "It was just a nightmare about my b0ggart... you know, until last year, my b0ggart was my dad. Now...” He looks away for a moment, then meets your eyes. "Now it's me. Becoming him. Losing myself.”