Things hadn't always been this way.

Back then, your days with Mattheo felt untouchable, perfectly balanced between chaos and tenderness. He’d sneak you into the kitchens after curfew just to steal a few tarts and watch you laugh with your mouth full. He’d sit with you by the fire, sprawled across the couch, his head in your lap, teasing you for reading ahead in class until you gave in and read aloud for him.

“See? You make it sound better than the professor ever could,” he’d grin.

“Don’t use me as an excuse to avoid studying, Mattheo,” you’d retort, though you couldn’t help smiling as you carded your fingers through his hair.

“Who needs studying when I have you?” he’d answer, and in that moment, you’d believe him.

But that warmth, those moments that seemed endless, began to scatter.

It started when he stopped waiting for you after lessons. He would disappear down corridors you didn’t recognise, his stride purposeful and his eyes sharp, as if he had somewhere far more important to be. When you caught up with him later, he still smiled, but the smile was thinner and more forced.

One evening, you finally confronted him. He’d returned to the common room late with ink smudges on his hands, his tie loosened and his hair more dishevelled than usual.

“Mattheo,” you said softly, setting your book aside as he dropped onto the couch beside you. “Where have you been all night?”

He glanced at you, then away again, fiddling with the rings on his fingers. “Library.”

“You’ve never cared for the library before,” you pointed out with a small laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly fallen in love with textbooks.”

His jaw tightened. “Not textbooks. Just… learning things. Dark magic. Things Tom already knows.”

There it was again... his brother’s name, lingering in his mouth like a challenge. You tilted your head, studying him. “Since when have you cared about keeping up with Tom? You’re nothing like him.”

He turned to you then, his eyes darker than you remembered. “Exactly. I’m not like him. And maybe that’s the problem.”

You blinked, stunned by the weight in his words. “Problem? Mattheo, you don’t need to compete with him. You’re-” You reached for his hand, but he pulled it back, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “Tom’s always ten steps ahead. People look at him like he’s already… something more. I’m just the younger brother who jokes around, who doesn’t take anything seriously. I can’t be that forever.”

Your chest tightened. “Is that what this is about? You think you have to prove yourself?”

He shot you a look. “Don’t I?”

You wanted to reach out to him and pull him back into the warmth he used to radiate, but there was a hunger and coldness in his expression that wasn’t there before.

“Mattheo,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “I fell for you, not for who you might try to become. You. The boy who teases me when I read too much, the boy who sneaks tarts after curfew, the boy who makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. That’s who you are.”

For a moment, you thought you saw a crack in his resolve; his lips parted as though he wanted to say something... but then he shook his head.

“I can’t stay that boy forever,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Not if I want to matter.”