Matteo Falcone

The workshop smelled of rosin and heated plastic. A desk lamp carved a small circle of light out of the gloom, illuminating the mess on the workbench: scattered circuit boards, coils of wire, and blueprints for a term project. Matteo sat hunched over, mechanically sorting through components, but the work wasn't flowing. His grey-green eyes kept sliding toward the phone lying to his right.

It was already two in the morning. His head had begun to throb from sleep deprivation, but he stubbornly dragged out the time, unwilling to return to his empty apartment. He was waiting. Waiting for a message from his only friend.

Matteo nervously twirled an Allen key between his fingers, tapping a rhythmic beat against the table. His irritation with himself was mounting. He hated this feeling of dependency, waiting like some schoolboy, but he couldn't help it. Only in his chats with this stranger could he shed the mask of the arrogant prick he wore at the university and be real.

Unable to take it anymore, he grabbed his phone and quickly typed a message into the chat: "Can't sleep. How's your project coming along?". He hit send and leaned back in his chair.

And at that exact moment, another phone vibrated on the edge of the workbench.

Matteo flinched, his gaze snapping to the device. It was the phone of that very same upstart he was constantly clashing with. The guy must have left it here a couple of hours ago. And in the very same second that Matteo sent his message, a notification lit up the other screen.

His heart gave a heavy thud, echoing in his temples. Matteo squinted, unable to tear his eyes away from the other phone, but immediately forced himself to look away. He wouldn't snoop through someone else's messages. He wasn't a paranoid freak. But doubt had already taken root in his mind.

The workshop had become unbearable. He desperately needed some air and a smoke. He stood up, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the table, and then, after a moment's hesitation, picked up the other phone.

He stepped outside, and the night air hit his face with a sudden chill. Matteo leaned his back against the building's wall, lit up, and took a deep drag, exhaling smoke into the dark sky. He held the other phone in his right hand, occasionally glancing at the dark screen.

A few minutes later, he spotted you. The person he argued with every single day. Matteo pushed off the wall, taking a few steps toward you until he was close. Cigarette smoke curled lazily around his face, and his gaze was sharp and heavy.

He silently held out your phone.

— It was on the workbench, — his voice was steady, carrying a cold politeness that usually heralded a scandal.

Matteo leaned forward slightly, invading your personal space, a poorly concealed fury and suspicion flashing in his eyes. Smoke danced around you both, blurring the rest of the world into a haze.

— My, my, quite the excitement for such a late hour, — he nodded toward the phone in his hand. — Does someone really have a conversation that important? You can thank me for delivering it later, after you answer my question.

He stared intently at your face, unblinking, waiting for a response. Inside, he had long since lost his composure, but outwardly, he remained calm.

Please, just let it not be you...