The walk home felt heavier than usual, the echoes of laughter and scorn from his classmates still ringing in Matteo's ears. He trudged through the quiet streets of Zurich, the cold evening air biting at his skin. The sky was a dull shade of gray, the last light of the sun fading beyond the snow.....dusted rooftops. His footsteps were slow, almost reluctant, as if he could delay reaching the place that reminded him of everything he was failing to be.
His home was a modest apartment tucked into one of the older districts of the city. The building itself had seen better days.....its exterior paint was peeling, and the stairwell smelled of damp wood. The elevator hadn't worked in years, forcing Matteo to take the long climb up four flights of stairs, each step making him more aware of the exhaustion in his limbs.
As he pushed the door open, the familiar scent of home-cooked food and faint detergent greeted him. The small living room was neat but filled with signs of wear—an old, fraying couch, a tiny TV sitting on a wobbly wooden stand, and shelves lined with books that had yellowed with time. It was a home built with love, but also with struggle.
His mother, a frail woman in her late forties, was in the kitchen, her thin arms working to lift a heavy pot onto the stove. Her hands, twisted with arthritis, trembled slightly as she stirred the soup. She turned upon hearing him enter, her tired eyes lighting up momentarily.
"Matteo, you're home."
He nodded, his voice caught in his throat.
"Your father's still working," she added after a moment, her tone neutral but the weight in her voice unmistakable.
Matteo's heart sank further. He had expected this, yet hearing it aloud made it more painful. His father, a man already weakened by two heart strokes, should have been resting. But he wasn't.....he was out there, breaking himself to ensure Matteo had a future.
His mother turned back to the stove. "Dinner is ready. Come eat."
"I'm not hungry," Matteo mumbled, heading straight for the stairs.
She didn't stop him. Maybe she wanted to, maybe she didn't have the strength. The unspoken words hung in the air between them like a suffocating fog.
Matteo's room was small, its walls once a bright shade of blue but now faded and cracked in places. A single bed was pushed into the corner, its sheets wrinkled from too many sleepless nights. His study desk, cluttered with crumpled papers and broken pens, sat beside a window that overlooked the dimly lit streets. A single bulb flickered weakly, barely illuminating the room.
He collapsed onto his chair, his body drained, his mind racing. He wanted to be strong, but the weight of it all pressed down on him like an invisible force. His father was fighting to keep their family afloat. His mother was pushing through pain to make their house a home. And what was he doing?
Nothing.
He tried to help, but they always refused. "Focus on your studies," they would say. "Your job is to succeed."
But he wasn't succeeding. He was failing.
His fingers clenched into fists, his breath coming out in uneven gasps. His father's tired smile flashed through his mind. His mother's aching hands. His professor's cruel laughter. His classmates' mockery.
Tears burned his eyes before he could stop them. He pressed his palm against his mouth, suppressing the sobs that threatened to break free. He wasn't a child. He couldn't cry.
And yet, he did.
He cried for his father's failing health. He cried for his mother's silent suffering. He cried for his own helplessness.
But tears wouldn't change anything.
Matteo wiped his face roughly, his eyes landing on the torn remains of his project. He hesitated for only a moment before grabbing the papers, spreading them across the desk.
He would try again.
Even if it meant staying up all night.
The morning arrived in a blur of exhaustion. Matteo's head ached from lack of sleep, but his heart pounded with something new—hope. He had rewritten the entire project, double....checked every detail, refined every explanation. This time, it had to be enough.
He barely touched breakfast before racing out the door, his mother's tired voice calling after him, but he was already halfway down the street.
As he reached the college grounds, his breath caught.
Professor Eliane was just stepping out of her sleek black car. The morning sunlight gleamed against the polished exterior, reflecting off the tinted windows. She moved with the same effortless grace she always did, her long black hair cascading down her back, her suit immaculate, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.
For a moment, Matteo hesitated. The memory of yesterday's humiliation flashed in his mind, but he clenched his jaw. He had to try.
Summoning all his courage, he approached her.
"G....Good morning, Professor," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Eliane stopped, lowering her dark sunglasses to reveal those piercing blue eyes. Her gaze flickered to him, indifferent.
Matteo swallowed hard. "I…... I worked all night. I fixed everything. I just want to know if this....." he carefully unfolded his project, his hands trembling slightly, "....if this is enough."
For a second, something unreadable flickered across her expression.
Then, she smiled.
Hope flared in Matteo's chest.
Maybe....just maybe.....
But before he could finish the thought, the smile twisted.
Without a word, Eliane took the project, held it up between her delicate fingers—
And tore it apart.
The sound of ripping paper was deafening.
Matteo's breath hitched. His heart stopped.
"N.....No," he whispered, reaching out. "Please, don't....."
But the shreds fluttered to the ground like dead leaves.
Eliane dusted her hands off, her expression unreadable once more. "Try harder next time."
Matteo felt his knees tremble. Desperation clawed at his throat. He had tried. He had given everything.
His hand shot forward...he didn't even think.....just a desperate attempt to stop her, to make her listen. His fingers brushed against her wrist.
And in that instant, everything froze.