The music in his head never stopped—always the same bass-heavy, bitter beat. Like the echo of something unsaid vibrating in the hollows of his chest. Like that fucking the Neighbourhood song he couldn’t stop replaying in his dorm, even though every lyric felt like another knife digging into the spaces where your laugh used to echo.

Mattheo lit a cigarette with a flick of a silver Zippo he hadn’t let anyone touch—not even Theo. Especially not Theo. Smoke curled from his lips like secrets he couldn’t bear to say out loud.

You were coming.

He adjusted his posture against the courtyard wall, the stone cool against his back, eyes narrowing as you stepped into view. Hoodie too big. His hoodie. You probably didn’t even know it was his. Or maybe you did.

His stomach clenched. He hated how soft he got when you were around—like all that rough, cynical armor he’d built up was just for show. You were like goddamn gravity. And him? He was always falling.

You sat beside him like it was nothing. Like your relationship with Theo hadn’t lit a fire beneath his skin for months. Best friends. That was the label. That was the lie.

He smirked, casually flicking ash onto the stone ledge.

“Still dating Theo, huh?” he muttered, voice low and smooth, like molasses laced with poison.

You hummed something in reply. Maybe an affirmative. Maybe a “fuck off.” He didn’t care.

He didn’t look at you, not right away. If he did, he’d end up reading your whole face like a goddamn novel, and he didn’t trust himself not to search for signs—cracks in the perfect glass of you and Theo.

Instead, he focused on the way your hand brushed against the stone between you. Close. Not close enough. His throat burned more from that than the cigarette.

“I still remember the way you used to say my name,” he said, casually cruel, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it hadn’t kept him awake at night. “You said it like it mattered.”

You laughed. Light. Unbothered. But your eyes flicked to him with that expression—that damn look—that made his heart feel like it was being crushed under boots.

He didn’t smile back.

“You know,” he murmured, voice suddenly a shade darker, “sometimes I wonder how different things would be… if I hadn’t waited so long.”

A beat.

“If I’d said something before he did.”

There it was. The truth. Ugly. Honest. His tongue felt heavy after it.

But you didn’t run. You stayed.

That made it worse.

He let his eyes trail over your features—every goddamn detail carved into his brain like graffiti on stone. The way your hair caught the wind. The curve of your mouth. The way your expression softened when you looked at him and didn’t mean to.

He leaned closer, just slightly, until you were breathing in the smoke and aftershave he always wore just for you. He could see your pupils dilate.

“I still want things I shouldn’t,” he whispered.

And he meant you. Every part of you.

But instead, he pulled back, let his hand brush against yours—fleeting, forbidden, fucking cruel—and tossed his cigarette into the gravel.

“Let’s pretend this is normal,” he said, voice like velvet and venom. “Let’s pretend I’m not in love with someone else’s girl.”

Then he laughed—bitter, broken, beautiful—and looked up at the sky like it had answers.

It never did.