On October 3rd, Mattheo asked you what day it was. You told him, almost automatically, that it was Wednesday. He nodded as though you had answered a question he had kept to himself.

Two weeks later, you saw him again.

The air was damp and heavy, and the rain had been falling all morning. You spot him at the far end of the room, leaning back in his chair, one leg tucked under the other, his book open but clearly ignored.

“It’s raining,” he says without looking up.

You nod, but something in you twists. You want the conversation to move faster...

So you follow your instinct.

“Hey,” you say, stepping closer. “I’m totally lost. Can you help me?”

He blinks, surprised, and then a small smile curls at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I can help you,” he says. His words are confident, almost too confident, and you feel the spark of hope... maybe this time, maybe now, things will click.

He leans over his book and begins to explain. At first, his explanations sound plausible. But, as he continues, it becomes clear that every formula he writes and every rule he recites is wrong. He doesn’t understand the lesson. Not a word of it. He confuses terms, puts numbers the wrong way round, and yet he continues to explain with a certainty that makes your chest tighten.

Still, you don’t stop him. You let him talk.

You notice the little things: the way his hand trembles slightly when he erases a mistake, the way he squints at the page as if looking harder will make the right answer appear... There’s something beautiful in his certainty, and in his stubbornness.

You can see how much he wants to get it right and how much he wants to help. This makes the errors seem irrelevant.

You realise that it's not the lesson that matters. It's him. It’s the way he tries, even when he gets it all wrong.

At one point, he pauses and glances at you. His eyes meet yours in a way that makes the room feel smaller and more intimate, as if all the rain and mistakes were happening just for the two of you. He fidgets with his pen, clears his throat and says something else that is completely wrong. You bite back a laugh, not out of mockery, but because it is almost endearingly absurd and sincere.

When he finally looks up at you, equal parts frustrated and proud, you smile. You consider correcting him, guiding him and making sense of the lesson, but you don't. Instead, you let it be. You realise that sometimes being lost isn’t about finding the answer. Sometimes it's about being willing to sit with the uncertainty, to let the rain fall and to let someone else stumble alongside you, and still feel like it matters.

Mattheo smirks faintly. “I have no idea what I just did, but… I hope it helped a little.”