Chapter 4
It was getting late. The sky had faded into that dark light blue, just before it turns white . I sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed now, Mathan behind me, silent.
My overnight bag was zipped. My shoes were laced. And yet, I couldn't stand up.
I felt like I was made of glass, and if I moved too quickly, I'd shatter into pieces all over his bedroom floor.
Mathan was quiet too. Not the kind of quiet that happens when two people are fine. The kind that's heavy, loud. Thick with all the words neither of us wanted to say out loud. Not yet.
He reached over and brushed the back of my hand with his thumb. I didn't look at him. I couldn't.
"You're really leaving today " he murmured.
It wasn't a question.
I nodded, my throat dry. "Yeah."
Mathan let out a slow breath, and the bed shifted as he leaned to the nightstand.
"I wanted to wait," he said. "Until your birthday, or maybe after your first exam. But… it doesn't matter anymore."
He reached into the drawer and pulled out a slim black box. He handed it to me wordlessly.
My hands trembled a little as I opened it.
Inside was a brand new phone.
I blinked. "Mathan?"
"I wanted you to have it," he said, gently. "Because I want to be a part of your life even when I'm not there." He said
It looked expensive. Sleek. Carefully chosen.
I stared at it like it might disappear. "You didn't have to"
"I know," he cut in softly. "But I wanted to."
I looked at him then.
Really looked.
"Thank you," I said, barely above a whisper.
"I've already put my number in," he smiled faintly, eyes not quite meeting mine. "And… I set up a shared album. Photos. Videos. You can see them whenever. Add your own."
"I will," I said. "I will, Mathan."
For a long second, we didn't speak. We just sat there. The window beside us was open, and the night wind drifted in with a softness I felt all the way in my bones. I could hear a dog barking somewhere far off. Distant city hum.
Then Mathan leaned closer, until our foreheads touched.
"I'll come to you," he whispered. "Whenever I can. I'll make it work. I swear."
I nodded. "And I'll write. Every week. You'll get sick of me."
He smiled.
"You're my favorite, Mathew," he murmured, voice warm in the small space between us. "You always have been."
I tried to hold onto that. The weight of those words.
Not because I needed proof. But because I needed something to carry with me, on the long ride back to a life that felt less full without him in it.
We didn't kiss then.
We just stayed like that — heads bowed together, breathing each other in.
And when I finally stood up to leave, phone in hand, I felt like an old cardigan folded neatly in a drawer — not discarded, not forgotten — but loved.
Put on.
Cherished.
His favorite.