It started with sticky notes.
I figured I'd go subtle. A quote here, a reminder there. I stuck one to Mateo's closet door:
"even if we fail, you'll get over it eventually"
Another on the mirror:
"You're already dramatic. You might as well act."
He didn't say a word. He just peeled them off one by one, folded them into perfect squares, and set them in a tidy pile on my desk. Silent judgment wrapped in origami.
Nino found the whole thing hilarious.
"You're trying to convince the human embodiment of a locked filing cabinet to do theater," he said, lying across his bed like a gremlin prince. "At this rate, I'll be on stage before he is."
"You are on stage," I said. "You agreed."
"I agreed for bribes," he reminded me, flipping through his phone. "Speaking of which... do you have any idea how expensive those triple shot iced things are?"
"You said one month of Starbucks runs."
"Yeah, well," he said, tapping his screen, "inflation."
I groaned. "You're literally blackmailing me with my own idea."
"No, no, no. Blackmail implies secrets. This is just capitalism with extra steps."
Mateo walked in right as I was throwing a pencil at Nino's head. He raised one eyebrow and didn't say anything. Just sat down, took out his physics notes, and started studying like the last ten minutes hadn't happened.
We didn't have much of a common area—just a small table, three beds, and whatever was clean enough to walk on. But we made it work. And for the next week, I made it my mission.
Day 4: I casually played instrumental theater music in the background while we did homework. Mateo didn't comment, but he did pause once like something caught his ear.
Day 6: I "accidentally" left the rough draft of the script on his pillow with a note that said:
You'd play this character better than I ever could.
He didn't respond. But he didn't throw it away either.
Day 9: Nino came back from the dining hall with two drinks. One for him. One for Mateo.
"Wait," I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Since when are you nice?"
"I'm softening him up," he said, sitting down and slurping his drink loudly. "If he agrees to do this show, I want credit. In cash. Or in something you'll regret."
Mateo took the drink and sipped it slowly. "What did you put in this?"
"Love," Nino said.
"And two extra espresso shots," I added.
"Bribery, then." Mateo sneered
"Let's call it... encouragement," Nino said, shooting me a wink.
It took two more weeks.
Two more weeks of sticky notes, casual name-drops of famous introverts who acted, and Nino casually offering to "accidentally delete" Mateo's study playlist if he didn't agree to join.
Then one night—exactly seventeen days in—Mateo walked in, set down his tea, and said, "If we're doing this, I want rehearsal schedules on paper. I'll be in charge of blocking. And if anyone improvises on stage, I'm walking off mid-line."
I froze, halfway into my instant noodles.
"You're in?"
"I didn't say that," he said. "I'm saying—if I do this, it will not be chaotic. There will be structure. Boundaries. And no glitter."
Nino looked up from his phone. "That's the Mateo way of saying 'yes,' by the way."
I jumped off my bed like I'd won the lottery. "YES! I knew you had a theater kid inside you!"
He gave me a look that said never say that again.
Nino raised his drink. "To the last act."
"Cheers," I said, bumping my cup of noodles against his. "And thanks, man. Seriously."
Nino smirked. "Oh, you'll be thanking me more than once."
I didn't get it at the time.
Not until later, when I realized I never actually checked what I was agreeing to give him in exchange.
And that's when the real scam started.