Chapter 16
Luca
Matt is sprawled across the floor of my room like he owns the entire carpet, feet kicked up on my bed, the controller dangling from his fingers.
He isn’t even looking at the screen anymore.
The glow from the TV flickers across his face, turning his expression into a mix of curiosity and mischief.
“Please tell me who the girl is,” Matt says for what feels like the millionth time.
I mash the controller buttons harder than necessary. “Matt, I’ve told you already. A thousand times. I can’t.”
“But why?” His voice has that stubborn edge, the one that means he isn’t going to let it go.
I sigh and mute the game.
“Because it’s not only me that this information will affect.”
We aren’t really playing anymore — at least, I am not.
I’m just sitting there, staring at the screen, my brain miles away.
Matt has been circling this topic all night, like a shark smelling blood.
“But I don’t even know her.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I say, flicking off the TV.
The room immediately becomes darker. “I’d still feel terrible.”
“Hey!” Matt groans as the screen goes black.
“You weren’t even focusing,” I point out.
He throws his arms up. “Please just tell me.”
“No.”
“You’re so annoying. What if I helped?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Matt, there is no way you could ever help me with this. Not in any universe.”
Ironic I’m saying this when the message was originally for him.
His mouth falls open. “That’s so mean.”
“I love you, man, but no.”
“Fine.” He gets up and goes to his room.
But I know this isn’t the end.
Matt doesn’t quit.
I toss my controller aside and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
The glow from the hallway light slips in under the door, a thin slice of yellow against the dark.
It’s close to midnight, and my whole body feels heavy with exhaustion.
But sleep won’t come.
It never does when my head is like this.
I think about Tilly.
I want to ask how she is, really ask, not just the surface stuff.
I have a feeling in my gut that she needs it.
This feeling is telling me she needs it now. It’s telling me that she needs someone to tell her everything is ok.
But when I think of doing it, I’m scared.
And that’s pathetic.
I’m pathetic when it comes to her.
I want to see her look at me the way she used to — like the world has gone quiet and we are the only two people left.
We used to talk until sunrise about nothing and everything. Even the silences between us were full.
Now it feels like there is a wall, invisible but thick. Like if I speak, I’d bounce off it.
I’m terrified that whatever we had is slipping, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Sometimes I swear I see it in her too, the flicker of something, but maybe I’m just imagining it.
I don’t want to lose her completely.
I groan, sitting up.
My head feels too full for sleep.
I pull a hoodie over my head, the fabric rough but familiar, and walk into the kitchen.
The apartment is dead quiet.
I can hear each individual board creak under my foot.
I flick on the stove light, a dim pool of yellow in an otherwise dark kitchen. The counters are clean, Zara’s plants lined up neatly on the windowsill, their leaves casting jagged shadows against the tile.
The faint hum of the fridge is the only other sound.
Yana and Zara are asleep — they always are by now.
Tilly has her own room.
I pour cereal into a bowl, the clink of the spoon weirdly loud in the stillness, and sit down at the counter.
“Luca?”
Her voice is soft, scratchy with sleep.
I turn, and there she is.
Tilly .
Her hair is up in a messy ponytail and falling into her face. Her favorite black sweatpants on and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off her shoulder.
She looks so beautiful.
She doesn’t look like she realises it, and it makes me want to take her in my arms and tell her until she realises just how beautiful she really is.
How can people with such beauty not stare at the mirror every hour of the day just because they can?
Why can’t she see it?
She blinks at me with those tired eyes, but even tired, they are stunning.
I have always loved her eyes.
One of them is a beautiful light shade of blue, a pale blue that makes her skin look warm and glowing, and the other one is a shade of green that I can never seem to find the perfect comparison for.
All I know is that they are beautiful.
“Tills?” My voice comes out softer than I intend. “What are you doing awake?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” she says, lips curling into a half-smile as she shuffles in.
I turn back to the counter, grabbing another bowl automatically. “Couldn’t sleep. You?”
“Same.” She whispers, looking down, and lowers herself onto the stool across from me, pulling her sleeves over her hands like she always does.
“Well, tomorrow we’re going to live on coffee alone, but whatever.” I try to make it sound light.
She giggles quietly, and it’s like the tiniest crack of sunlight through a storm cloud.
We eat in silence for a while, the sound of spoons scraping against bowls filling the air.
It isn’t the easy silence we used to have.
This one is heavy with words that aren’t being said, and it’s almost painful.
“So…” I finally break it.
“So…” she echoes, eyes dancing just a little. “Is this weird for you too, or…?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “It is.”
She sets her spoon down and looks at me.
I look at her and tilt my head, smiling. “Let’s change that.”
“Ok, I’m going to be honest with you, Luca — you’ve been distant from me, again. Are you good?”
Her voice isn’t sharp.
It’s curious, but it lands like a punch anyway.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “It’s just, I feel like I have nothing to talk about with you anymore.”
She blinks, surprised, and then picks at the edge of her bowl. “Well, that’s not good,” she says finally. “You know you can talk to me about everything, right?”
I nod, but my throat feels tight. “Do you know the fact is reciprocated?”
She gives me a weird look. “Yeah.”
She’s lying.
I can see it in the way her bottom lip catches between her teeth, in the way her nostrils flare just slightly.
She always does that when she isn't telling the full truth.
I lean forward, voice softening. “Tilly, do you know you can tell me anything? Do you know that I won’t judge you, and I definitely won’t hate you? Do you know that?”
For a second, she doesn’t move.
Her spoon is suspended over the bowl, her eyes flicking down, then back to me.
She looks small, almost fragile, but there is steel under it, too.
“Luca…” she starts, but her voice cracks just enough to make my chest ache.
As much as I want to, I don’t push.
I just sit there watching her.
The kitchen feels like it’s holding its breath — the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock, even the shadows on the wall.
Everything seems to stand still, waiting for whatever is about to be said.
The suspense is slowly drawing out, and all I want to doist knock every word out of her, tie it in a nice pink ribbon, and throwi out the window.
Because, for some reason, I have a dreadful feeling these words aren’t pretty.
I realize, sitting here in the soft glow of the stove light, hoodie pulled tight around me, that this is it.
This is the edge, and she’s about to jump off.