The next day, We left the house late, Mathan's hand slipping easily into mine as we walked down the driveway. The sky was soft and pale, clouds scattered like cotton above the sun. The air smelled faintly of the ocean even though it was miles away or maybe that was just how his neighborhood always smelled in my memory.
We didn't say much at first. Just walked.
It was strange, returning like this two grown boys with keys in their pockets and too many things unsaid. The street had barely changed. Same iron gate at the corner. Same stone path that cut behind the hedge into that secret alleyway we used to race down. Same mango tree that once dropped fruit into the neighbor's yard, and we got caught sneaking them back.
We walked past the small corner shop
the one with peeling red paint and the cracked Coca-Cola sign. The woman who used to sell sweets out front was gone now, but I could still picture the faded yellow counter, the way Mathan used to distract her while I grabbed the cheap gum from the jar behind her.
"I think she always knew," I said, without meaning to.
Mathan looked over. "What?"
"The old lady. At the shop. I think she let us get away with it."
He laughed
the kind of laugh that cracked through his ribs and made his shoulders shake a little. "You think?"
"I mean… we weren't exactly subtle."
"She let us go because I used to tell her you were poor," he said, grinning.
I hit his arm. "You didn't."
"I did. Said you were malnourished. That you needed sugar to survive."
"You're horrible."
"You're welcome."
We turned onto a quieter street, our shoes brushing against the dust on the pavement. A group of kids ran past, loud and sticky with ice cream, chasing each other with plastic water guns. One of them almost bumped into me before darting away, shrieking.
"Wasn't that us once?" Mathan asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. Only we were worse."
"I know."
We stopped outside a small wall, chipped and uneven, barely tall enough to hide anything now. I didn't need him to tell me what it was. I already knew.
"This is where we held hands the first time," I said, my voice quiet.
Mathan didn't respond immediately.
I didn't blame him.
That memory always came back with a kind of soft ache. We were twelve, maybe thirteen. We hadn't known what it meant then. Not fully. It had been raining, and we were crouched under the overhang, breath fogging in the cold. His fingers brushed mine once, twice, then stayed.
"how scared I was. Back in school, when you came back. After three years. I acted like I could handle it. Like I had things under control. But I didn't."
The words came slowly, like I had to give myself permission to say them.
"I've loved you since we were kids, Mathan. Even when I didn't know what it was. Even when I pretended it wasn't true. And when you left the first time, it felt like… like something had been torn out of me."He was still looking at me. Still quiet.
We stood there in silence. Just us and the wind. Our fingers linked in a place that once held the echoes of smaller, braver versions of ourselves.
⸻
The sun had started dipping just a little, but the day still felt warm
not from the weather, but from everything we weren't saying out loud.
Back at Mathan's house, we didn't rush anything. We didn't feel the need to. Maybe it was the weight of knowing this was our last full day together, or maybe we were just pretending the world outside didn't exist. Either way, we slipped into the kitchen like we had every right to be there barefoot, half-dressed, unbothered.
Mathan leaned against the counter and opened the fridge like it had personally offended him.
"There's nothing here."
"You have a full pantry."
"Yeah, but it's all Stuff with ingredients that need subtitles."
I chuckled, walking past him. "Let's make pancakes."
"Pancakes?" He looked at me like I'd just told him we were going to war. "You know how to make pancakes?"
I pulled out flour, eggs, and milk, placing them one by one on the marble counter. "You're about to find out."
To his credit, Mathan tried. He stood beside me, squinting into the mixing bowl like the batter might attack him. I handed him a whisk, and he immediately splattered the counter.
"Nice," I said.
"I meant to do that."
"Right. For the aesthetic?"
"Exactly."
We got flour everywhere
in his hair, on my shirt, a streak across his cheek that I didn't bother to wipe off right away. He looked ridiculous. Beautiful. Like a mess I wanted to memorize.
At one point, he tried flipping a pancake and ended up half-burning it.
"Don't even say it," he warned, eyes narrowed.
I just smiled. "Chef Mathan."
He tried to flick flour at me. Missed.
It was chaotic. Silly. Domestic in a way that made my chest ache.
When we finally sat down on the stools by the window, plates warm in our hands, I caught myself watching him chew. Watching the way his lips curved when he smiled. The way the sunlight hit his collarbone.
"What?" he asked, mouth half-full.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm allowed to."
After we finished eating, the house felt too quiet. Not awkward, just… soft. Like the day was exhaling slowly with us. I went to wash my hands, and without saying anything, he followed.
"Shower?" he asked, voice quiet.
"Yeah."
We didn't make it a big deal.
He turned on the water. I undressed. So did he.
We stepped in.
There was no urgency in it. No teasing. Just quiet steam, soft water, and skin. I reached for the shampoo and ran it gently through his hair, feeling his breath slow under my fingers. He closed his eyes and let me. I'd never seen him this still.
When he did the same for me, I rested my forehead against his collarbone, eyes closed. His hands moved slow, reverent. Like he was trying to remember every inch of me with just his fingertips.
He kissed my temple and didn't say anything. Just held me there, warm and quiet, like he could press time still with his body.
And for a little while, it worked.
Mathan lit a small lamp by the bedside
not too bright, just enough to cast soft gold shadows across his room. I sat at the edge of his bed, already half-dressed in one of his shirts, the collar stretched from sleep and laundry and whatever lives we'd lived before this day.
He moved quietly behind me. He always did when something mattered.
His hand brushed my shoulder, and I turned to face him.
For a moment, we just looked at each other
not like we were trying to figure anything out, but like we already had. There was no question anymore. Just the answer we'd carried in our bones all along.
He leaned down, kissed me not the kind we used to steal behind dormitory doors, not the kind that rushed past the lips out of fear someone might see. This was slower. Anchored. A kiss that told me everything without saying a word.
I leaned back onto the sheets, letting him follow, letting him cover me like silence.
Clothes came off without words. There was no need to fill the room with anything else. We already knew what this meant. We'd known it since we first touched under that cracked ceiling back in school.
But this wasn't like that.
This time, he didn't rush. His hands moved with the weight of memory, of longing. Of knowing this could be the last time for a while — maybe ever — and treating every inch of me like it mattered. Like I mattered.
We made love like time didn't exist.
His lips memorized the line of my jaw, the curve of my collarbone, the softest parts of me I never thought anyone would see. His hands held me like I might slip away. And maybe I would.
I watched him in the half light
the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way his mouth trembled when he said my name.
"Mathew…"
Like a prayer.
My fingers gripped his back, nails digging just slightly into the skin, grounding us. I didn't say anything. If I did, I might've begged him not to let go.
We moved together, slow and aching, like we could stretch the moment into something permanent. Like the longer we stayed inside each other, the less likely the world was to take it all away.
When it ended, we didn't move.
He stayed inside me for a little while, breath still unsteady, arms holding me like I'd disappear if he blinked too long.
Eventually, he slid down next to me and pulled me into his chest.
We didn't sleep. Couldn't.
The room was dim, the sheets warm, and the future suddenly too close.
Mathan's fingers traced gentle lines along my back, over my spine, pausing every now and then at a freckle or scar like he was reading me in braille.
"I'll write," I said. "Letters. Not just texts."
"Good," he murmured. "I want to hear your voice in your handwriting."
We stayed like that until the sky turned deep blue. Until the shadows grew longer than the bed. Until sleep almost stole us, but not quite.