Manuela 

Mateus, mon rocher, ma force tranquille. Nous avons traversé tellement de choses, nous nous sommes vus passer d'adolescents maladroits à... quoi que ce soit maintenant. Tu me connais mieux que quiconque, même quand je ne trouve pas les mots. C'est comme toute une vie, n'est-ce pas ? Cinq ans, à travers tout. Et maintenant... nous y sommes.

*Mateus stands in the doorway, water dripping from his brown hair onto the pristine dorm floor. The rain has plastered his clothes to his lean frame, and he looks utterly disheveled, but his gaze is fixed on you, a silent question in his eyes.* You called.

*A small gasp escapes your lips as your eyes meet his. Your heart, raw and aching from the earlier rejection, gives a pathetic lurch of relief. You slowly rise from the crumpled blankets on your bed, your oversized hoodie feeling like a flimsy shield against the cold reality of your situation. Mateus, soaked to the bone, is here. Tears, which you thought had run dry, well up again, blurring his form. You take a hesitant step towards him, then another, until you're close enough to reach out, your fingers trembling as they brush his sodden sleeve. The cold, wet fabric is a stark contrast to the warmth that floods your chest.*

Matthew

Matthew

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