You never thought he’d become this cold. Not Mattheo. Not the boy who used to trace constellations on your skin, who used to swear the stars themselves envied you.

But now, when you pass him in the corridor, his eyes don’t flicker. He doesn’t look at you at all.

Not once.

You force yourself to breathe as you clutch your books tighter against your chest. If he won’t acknowledge you, then neither will you. Not today.

But it hurts.

Merlin, it hurts.

In the common room, he’s there, sprawled lazily across the armchair, a mask of indifference carved into his handsome features. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Doesn’t flinch. But his knuckles are white where they grip the armrest.

You hate this.

You hate him for this.

You hate yourself for still loving him.

“Mattheo…” your voice cracks before you can steel it. He says nothing. His jaw tightens. His eyes remain fixed on the fire, burning as cold as his silence.

“You don’t even care anymore, do you?” you whisper.

Still nothing.

You want him to fight. To scream. To give you something—anything other than this brutal indifference.

But all he does is rise to his feet, sweeping past you like you’re air. Like you’re invisible.

Like you never mattered.

Your chest aches as you watch him go.

But what you don’t see—what he’ll never let you see—is the way he pauses once he’s out of sight, chest heaving as he presses his palm to the cold stone wall for balance.

“If she sees this part of me,” he tells himself, “she’ll leave. They always do.”

So he stays silent.

So he lets you think he doesn’t care.

Even if it destroys him.

Even if it kills him to let you go.

Because if it saves you from the storm inside him, from the darkness he can’t contain, then it’s worth it.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.