Mattheo stares off into the distance, at the courtyard garden. His hands are in his pockets and his jaw is clenched, as it always is when he doesn't know how to express himself.

Finally, he shifts, his voice soft but stiff, as though he’s reciting something he’s practised alone. “We’re friends… yeah?”

The words sting more than they should.

You tilt your head slightly toward him, studying his face, trying to catch the lie he’s swallowing.“Friends?”

Your voice is quiet. Not accusing. Just… wondering. Because that’s not what it felt like last night. Or the night before that.

Mattheo huffs out a half-laugh, as if he heard the challenge under your breath.

“Pals,” he says quickly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Good buddies.”

“Yeah…” you say finally, your voice low. “We’re tight.”

The air is heavy with silence. Too casual. It's a line used to fill the void between two people who were never really anything.

You dare to glance up at him again, and this time he’s watching you – his eyes are a little too still, as if he’s bracing himself for something.

“It was really nice with you,” he says, and his voice is softer now, almost tender. “But… pals… should probably go.”

He smiles, but it’s not genuine. It’s the kind of smile you give when something’s finished but you don't want to say it.

You can feel your throat closing and your hands curling into fists.

You nod.

Not because you agree.

But because you don’t trust yourself to do anything else.

“Okay.”

And you turn, without looking back.

But gods, you want to.

You want to ask him why his hands trembled when they touched your skin. Why his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. Why his kiss tasted like a promise.

But you keep walking.

Because friends don’t ask those questions.

And lovers don’t leave without saying goodbye.