Mattheo lounged on one of the worn couches in the Slytherin common room, a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey dangling from his fingers. The green and silver lights from the party shimmered across his sharp features, casting fleeting shadows—but his eyes were fixed, dark and distant, locked on you.

In his mind, the first time you'd met played on repeat. He'd been leaning against the wall, headphones in, completely absorbed. You’d walked in quietly and said, “The Smiths?” He hadn’t realized the music had been loud enough to hear.

"I love The Smiths," you’d said, that smile tugging at your lips—the one he now missed with every part of himself.

He’d pulled his headphones down, blinking at you. “Sorry?”

You'd repeated it, a bit more softly. And he’d just stood there, stunned. “You love The Smiths?”

You’d laughed. “Yeah.”

It was only weeks later that he’d said it aloud to his friends, barely believing the words himself: "Holy shit... I think it's official. I'm in love with Y/N."

And tonight, not long after it all came crashing down, he’d whispered something else — this time only to himself: “I hate Y/N.”

But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie.

What he felt wasn’t hate. It was heartbreak. It was the ache of missing you, the ghost of your smile, the memory of how whole you’d made him feel.

And as that same old Smiths song played through his headphones again, the lyrics cutting deeper than before, he took another slow drink—eyes never leaving you on the other side of the room, still aching, still yours.