If someone had told me I'd leave home without a plan, just two changes of clothes, bus fare, and a phone barely charged, I wouldn't have believed them.
But here I was.
Drenched in rainwater, standing under a stone archway with lion carvings older than my mother, ringing the doorbell of a house I hadn't visited since I was a child.
A house I knew too well.
Mathan's house.
The rain hadn't stopped since morning. I took two buses and a train to get here. Crossed three cities. No call. No warning. I just showed up. Because I couldn't stop thinking about him.
It had been a month since we last saw each other. Since that night.
Since I held him in my bed like it was the last time.
And then… silence.
New term. New city. New schedule.
I started college , you know medicine, as planned. My mother transferred jobs to a clinic nearby. We were settling into this new life. I was doing everything right.
Except my heart was still in the past.
The heavy doors creaked open.
Two maids stood on the other side, both startled by the sight of me soaked through, shivering slightly, bag slung over my shoulder.
"I'm here to see Mathan," I said quietly, my voice a little hoarse from the cold.
Before they could respond, I heard footsteps from inside.
Then I saw them.
His parents.
And him.
Standing in the grand foyer like a portrait, his father stern, his mother unreadable, and Mathan in the middle of them. Wearing a loose sweatshirt and socks. He hadn't expected me. That much was clear.
But he didn't look away.
His eyes locked on mine like I'd stepped out of a dream and into the room.
"Mathew?" he breathed.
I didn't speak. I couldn't. My throat felt tight.
The silence that followed was cut by his mother's voice, sharp and clean:
"What is he doing here?"
I saw something flicker across Mathan's face
not fear. Not shame. Something harder.
His jaw tightened.
Then he stepped forward.
And for the first time in weeks, I heard his voice not in memory, but here!! alive and defiant.
"He's here because I love him."
His father's brow twitched. "Watch your mouth."
"No," Mathan said, voice firm. "You don't get to scare me into silence anymore. Not about this."
I stood frozen in the doorway, dripping rainwater onto their marble floor, heart pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears.
Mathan crossed the space between us.
"He's not some mistake I made in school," he added. "He's mine. He always has been."
"Mathan," his mother hissed. "This is not the time.. "
"Actually," he interrupted, "it's the perfect time."
Then he turned to me. He didn't look nervous. He didn't even look surprised anymore.
He looked like a boy who'd decided.
"You came all this way for me?" he asked, voice gentler now, eyes soft.
I nodded, barely.
Without another word, he stepped past both his parents, reached for my hand, and pulled me fully inside the house. His fingers were warm. Sure.
"Let's go," he said.
"Mathan… " his father started.
But he didn't stop walking.
And neither did I.
He led me through the wide corridor like he'd done when we were kids, when we'd sneak candy from the kitchen
Except now, I wasn't some childhood friend. I was his.
And this time, he was walking beside me like nothing in this house could touch us.
Not even them.
The door clicked shut behind us.
The silence that followed was heavier than the one downstairs, but different,
not cold or hostile. Just full of everything we hadn't said in a month.
Mathan's room hadn't changed. Tall windows. Shelves full of books he never read. A dark leather chair by the desk, . The same framed photo of the two of us from years ago still sat on the nightstand, it was half hidden behind a stack of old keys.
He stood there with his back to the door for a long moment, like he wasn't sure whether to speak or breathe or just keep staring at me like I might vanish.
I was soaked through. My shirt clung to me, and my shoes had left a trail of wet footprints across his polished floor. But he didn't care. He didn't even blink.
He crossed the room and pulled me in.
Hard.
Not like the quiet hug from the last night of term. This was something else.
His hands cupped the back of my head, his lips buried in my wet hair. I could feel the way he breathed me in sharp, like something he hadn't allowed himself to want for too long.
"I can't believe you came," he whispered.
"I can't believe you let me in," I replied, muffled against his chest.
He pulled back, only slightly, just enough to look at me.
"You're crazy," he said, eyes flickering over my face. "You travelled in this weather? "
He looked at the fabric stuck to my skin. Cold. Miserable. But his hands were warm, steady, gentle. Like he had all the time in the world.
He found me a towel. Then dry clothes his, soft and oversized shirt and pants. I didn't care.
We didn't talk for a while after that.
I sat on the edge of his bed, towel still in my hands, watching as he moved around the room, locking the door, pulling the curtains, switching off the main light. Leaving only the lamp near the desk on.
Finally, he joined me on the bed. Knees touching.
"You shouldn't have come," he said quietly, but his hands found mine anyway. "If my parents had done more than glare—"
"I'm not afraid of them."
"I am," he said. "But not for myself."
His voice cracked slightly at the end, and I looked up.
And I saw it. The ache of not being able to protect something he loved fully.
But he was still here.
Still holding my hand.
Still choosing me.
I squeezed his fingers.
"Did you mean what you said? Downstairs?" I asked.
He looked confused. "Which part?"
"The part where you said no, they wouldn't."
His jaw clenched, the way it always did when he was holding something back.
"I would've fought them if they tried to throw you out. You think I care if they approve of who I love?"
I blinked. "You said love."
"Yeah," he said, a little too casual, "I noticed."
I stared at him.
He shrugged. "It's not new, Mathew. You knew it before I ever said it."
I didn't respond.
Instead, I leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn't a hungry kiss, not yet.
Just slow. Real. Like I needed to confirm that he was still here. That this us wasn't something I'd made up in my head during those sleepless weeks.
His lips were soft, but the way he kissed back made my throat tighten.
Like he'd been waiting to taste me again.
Like he hadn't let himself miss me too hard because it would break him.
He kissed my top lip, then the corner of my mouth, then leaned his forehead against mine.
"Next time you come, call first."
"Next time?" I whispered, not trusting my voice.
His eyes searched mine. "You think I'd let this be the last?"
We didn't say anything after that.
We just lay down. Side by side. Fully clothed, under his thick blanket. His hand stayed on my waist. Mine found the hem of his sleeve.
No one spoke.
But everything was said.