Mattheo told himself he hated you.

Said it like a mantra, every time your name flickered behind his eyelids. Said it again when he passed the spot by the lake where you used to sit, head tilted back to watch the sky like it belonged to you alone. Said it one more time when he caught a glimpse of you across the corridor—eyes downcast, sleeves tugged over your hands the way you did when you felt small.

I hate her. He whispered it to the cold night, lips pressed against the mouth of a stolen flask, the burn of firewhisky not quite searing enough. But it tasted like you—like recklessness and ruined things and the ghost of a kiss he couldn’t forget if he tried.

And Merlin knew he tried.

God, those eyes—they were what did it. Always. The kind of eyes that had no business belonging to someone that soft, that young, that dangerous. Eyes that didn’t just look at him—they dissected him, left his ribs cracked open like pages in a diary you never asked to read.

You’d killed him slowly. Sweetly. Smiling.

He remembered the first time he saw you cry—not loud, not messy. Just silent, shattered. And he’d hated you then, too. Hated the way it twisted something inside him, made him want to burn down the entire fucking world just so you’d never have to cry again.

Mattheo dragged a hand through his hair, pacing his dorm like a caged animal. The other boys had learned not to ask. His rage came in waves now—quiet, sharp. Not the storm it once was, but something colder. More deliberate. The kind of fury that smiled while it sliced.

She left, he reminded himself. You’d said it was better this way. Safer.

He scoffed. Safer for who? Not him. Never him.

You had walked away with pieces of him still clutched in your shaking hands, and he hadn’t even asked for them back. He just let you go, like a coward dressed in black, like someone pretending not to be bleeding out in the quiet.

He lit a cigarette, his hands trembling slightly, not from the cold.

He still dreamed of your voice. Still flinched when someone wore your perfume. Still caught himself staring at empty spaces like they meant something. You were gone, and still he carried you like a curse stitched into his veins.

Mattheo exhaled smoke and hate and longing. I don’t love her anymore, he thought, pressing his palm to his chest.

And the lie sat there, heavy and hollow, in the cradle of his ribs.