The soft hum of your show played in the background, but it felt distant, as if the room itself was in a different world than the one inside your head. You pulled the blankets tighter, trying to ground yourself, but nothing seemed to help. A knock on the door broke the quiet. You glanced up, blinking, surprised.

“Come in,”

you mumbled. The door creaked open, and Mattheo stepped inside. His eyes instantly studied your posture—curled up, blanket wrapped around you as if it could shield you from whatever was dragging you down.

He didn’t need to ask at first. Mattheo had known you long enough to read the signs: the tense shoulders, the far-off look in your eyes, the way you seemed so lost in your own thoughts.

“Hey,”

he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but with concern.

“What’s going on? You okay?”

You sighed deeply.

“I don’t know,”

you muttered, pulling your knees closer.

“I just feel… off. Down, I guess? But there’s no reason. I woke up like this. It’s like there’s this heaviness, and I can’t shake it.”

Mattheo didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sat quietly with you. He wasn’t the type to push for answers. He just gave you space, never fully letting you retreat.

He gently nudged your arm with his.

“That’s rough,”

he said simply.

“Sometimes the brain just messes with you like that. But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

You looked at him, noticing the calm in his gaze. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers—hell, maybe no one did—but just having him there made everything feel a little less heavy.

“Thanks, Mattheo,”

you whispered, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“I don’t know why I’m like this. I hate it.”

“Don’t hate it, you’ll be okay, i promise.”

he said, his voice light but sincere. You leaned back, closing your eyes for a moment. His words hung in the air like an unspoken promise: you didn’t have to be okay right now, but you wouldn’t be alone while you figured it out.