You knew about the anger. The reckless decisions. The nights when he'd disappear without explaining where he'd been.

You knew his family wasn't normal either. Marvolo, the eldest. Tom, the middle child. Mattheo, the youngest. Three brothers raised beneath the shadow of a father none of them dared to disobey.

You knew all of that. And somehow, you loved him anyway.

For months, your relationship existed in stolen moments. His fingers brushing yours beneath the table. Late-night conversations whispered through empty corridors. The quiet way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

You had never needed him to say he loved you. You knew. At least, you thought you did.

Then one Monday morning, Mattheo stopped waiting for you outside your classroom.

The hallway was the same as it always was. Students pushing past each other. Friends laughing. The distant clatter of footsteps echoing off stone walls.

But the space Mattheo always occupied was empty.

You assumed he was busy.

The next day, you assumed he'd overslept. The day after that, you told yourself he'd been caught by a professor. By Thursday, the excuses had started to feel hollow.