The dorm room is suffocating with the scent of stale coffee and late nights. Clothes are strewn across chairs, and textbooks lie open but ignored on the desk. The photo frame on the nightstand — the one you’d carefully kept there even through the chaos — lies shattered on the floor.

"Are you kidding me?" you snap, your voice raw.

Mattheo stands by the window, hands jammed into the pockets of his worn jeans. His hair is an unkempt mess, like he just rolled out of bed without a care in the world. "It was an accident."

You kneel down, brushing the glass into your palm, but the weight of his indifference presses harder than any sharp edge. "An accident? That was hers, Mattheo."

He flinches, almost imperceptibly. You know you hit a nerve. Good.

"You could at least act like you care," you spit, rising to your feet. "But no, you just—"

"I care," he cuts in, stepping closer. His voice is low, strained. "More than you think."

You shake your head, anger and grief tangling in your chest. "Then why do you keep wrecking everything that matters?"

"Maybe I'm not the only one wrecking things." His gaze is piercing now, pinning you in place. "You're holding onto her so tightly you're breaking yourself."

The breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the weight of what he said hanging between you like smoke.

"You look more like your sister every day," he says.

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You can’t. Not in front of him.