Mattheo's posture is slightly hunched, his shoulders drawn in as if he is trying to disappear into the surrounding space. A book lies open in front of him, full of neat notes, but he is looking at the sketchbook beneath his hand.

You watch him for a moment before sitting down opposite him.

He notices, not by looking up, but by the way his hand pauses for just a second before continuing. His shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, as if he’s waiting for you to speak, or hoping you won't.

You rest your arms on the table. “You always sit here,” you whisper.

No answer.

He keeps drawing, but you can tell he’s not as focused anymore.

You tilt your head, trying to catch a glimpse of the page. Almost immediately, he shifts the sketchbook closer to himself.

“I’m not going to take it,” you say, smiling.

“…I know,” he murmurs, barely audible.

It’s the first thing he’s said, and it sounds like it took effort.

“Then why hide it?”

He hesitates, his fingers tightening around the pencil. “It’s not… finished.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not good.”

He doesn’t reply to that. His gaze stays down, fixed on the page, like it’s safer there.

You glance at his book instead. “You study a lot, don’t you?”

A small nod.

You smile. “I thought so.”

Silence settles again, but it feels less closed off than before. He’s still not looking at you, but he hasn’t shut you out completely, either.

“You don’t talk much,” you say gently.

Another pause.

“…I don’t know what to say,” he admits after a moment.

You lean your chin into your hand. “You don’t have to say anything perfect.”

He lets out the smallest breath, almost like a nervous exhale.

Your eyes flick back to his sketchbook. “Can I see?”

He hesitates longer this time, clearly unsure. Then, slowly, he turns it just enough for you to look.

The drawing is detailed, a little dark... someone sitting alone, shadows curling around them like they belong there.

You study it for a moment. “It’s beautiful.”

He looks down even more. “It’s not.”

“It is,” you say softly. “What are you reading?” you ask, nodding towards the book.

“…Essays,” he says. “About literature.”

“Of course they are,” you smile. “You seem like the type.”

There’s a faint pause, like he doesn’t know if that was an insult or not.

“I like them,” he says quietly.

“I can tell.”

Another small silence, then you ask, a little more carefully, “You don’t usually talk to girls, do you?”

He goes still. After a few seconds, he shakes his head slightly. “No.” His eyes stay on the page. “I don’t know how.”