Eliane sat in her dimly lit room, the only illumination coming from the street lamp outside her window. The pale glow stretched across the floor, barely touching the edges of the photograph she held in her trembling hands. A picture of her younger self, smiling, nestled between her parents, their warmth frozen in time.
She traced a fingertip along her mother's face, then her father's. The touch was as fleeting as their presence in her life had been. A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to look beyond the smiles to what lay beneath.
Her mind drifted. She saw a different scene—not the warmth of the photograph but the cold of a childhood playground. A girl, small and fragile, being shoved to the ground. Laughter rang out, shrill and merciless. Words like knives cut through the air:
"Freak."
"Why do you even come to school?"
"No one wants you here."
The image shifted, blurred, and suddenly it wasn't just that little girl. It was Matteo. Alone. Broken. Fighting against the tide of a world that never gave him a chance. The same tide that had once swallowed her whole.
She blinked, her fingers tightening around the photograph until the edges curled. Her heart pounded in her ears, a steady, mocking rhythm. Was she feeling bad for Matteo? Or was she feeling bad for herself?
She shoved the photograph onto the wall, pressing it flat against the surface with shaking hands. Then, without another word, she turned and collapsed onto her bed.
Why should it matter?
She was who she was. And that should be enough.
Matteo stood in front of the doctor, his hands gripping the crisp, printed result sheet. His fingers trembled slightly, not out of fear, but something else. He had done it. He had passed.
The doctor studied the paper for a long moment, then smiled. "You did well, Matteo. This calls for a celebration."
Matteo frowned. "I don't..."
"No arguments," the doctor cut him off, already grabbing his coat. "Come. I know a place."
An hour later, Matteo found himself seated in an upscale restaurant, the kind of place where the air smelled of overpriced wine and polished silverware. The doctor ordered a meal without consulting him, leaving Matteo to fidget with the hem of his sleeve.
"You should enjoy this," the doctor said after a moment. "You worked for it."
Matteo hesitated, staring at the plate of perfectly arranged food. It was almost surreal, sitting in a place like this, being served like he mattered. He took a bite. The flavors exploded in his mouth, and suddenly he was back to that night in the doctor's home, eating a simple meal that had reminded him of his mother.
His chest tightened. The food tasted good, but the ghosts at the table made it hard to swallow.
The next day, Matteo secured a job at a grocery store. It was small, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, nothing remarkable. But it was work. And it was his.
"A mask?" The manager raised an eyebrow when Matteo made the request.
Matteo nodded, his voice steady. "I just prefer it."
The manager sighed but shrugged. "Fine by me. As long as you do your job, I don't care how you look."
That was all Matteo needed to hear. He buried himself in work, keeping his head down, avoiding unnecessary conversations. The routine gave him structure, but the nights were long. The house he lived in was his, but it never felt like home. It was a place of isolation, of silence that pressed against his ribs like a weight he couldn't lift.
The doctor had told him to move in. He had refused. He visited once a week, enough to maintain some semblance of connection, but nothing more.
Then came the investment.
Matteo had read about it online, the way money could be multiplied if one was careful, strategic. He started small, pulling out whenever there was a gain. It became a routine—observe, invest, withdraw. He told no one. This was his secret, his quiet war against the world that had taken everything from him.
At first, it worked. The numbers climbed. His savings grew. He felt in control.
Until he wasn't.
It was a single miscalculation. A bad investment. A moment of misplaced trust in the numbers.
He watched, frozen, as everything he had built crumbled in front of him. His stomach lurched. His hands clenched into fists so tight his nails bit into his palms. The screen in front of him showed nothing but loss.
All of it. Gone.
A pressure built in his chest, suffocating. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. The walls of his house felt smaller, closing in, pressing against his skull.
He had nothing. Again.
The next day, he went to class with an empty mind and a heavier heart. The weight of his failure clung to him, dragging his every movement. He barely heard the lecture, barely registered the people around him.
Until Eliane appeared.
"You need to attend the extra class," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Matteo barely lifted his gaze. "I can't. I have work."
Her eyes narrowed. "Then you'll fail."
Something inside him twisted violently at her words.
Fail.
Failure.
His fingers twitched. His breath hitched. The pressure in his chest spiked, and for a moment, he wanted to scream. But he said nothing.
Because he had no choice.
He went to the class. He sat through it, unmoving, unfeeling. The words blurred together, indistinct murmurs that barely reached his consciousness. His thoughts were elsewhere...on his empty bank account, on the suffocating walls of his home, on the echoes of his past screaming in his head.
When the class ended, he walked out into the cold night, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. He was alone. Always alone. And no matter how hard he fought, the darkness never stopped closing in.
The days bled into each other. The pressure built, relentless, unwavering. Matteo felt himself slipping, drowning in the silence, in the emptiness.
One night, he stood in front of the mirror, staring at his own reflection. The mask was gone. What stared back at him was hollow, tired. A ghost of a boy who had once believed he could win.
His hands trembled. His throat burned. The room was too quiet.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard laughter. Not his own. Never his own.
He clenched his fists.
And the darkness watched, waiting, whispering.
Always waiting.
Always there.