For you, I'd stand still

Eight O'Clock

The café smells like warm bread and faintly burnt coffee. The hum of life outside feels muted here, like we've slipped into our own little corner of the world. Mateo sits across from me, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped loosely together. He's watching me, his expression soft, his dark eyes steady and unwavering.

It's unnerving, how comfortable he looks. How easily he fits into this moment when I feel like every cell in my body is vibrating with the urge to bolt. We've only been sitting for ten minutes, but the tingling is becoming unbearable. But his presence is an anchor, and I began to learn something new about myself: the tingling can be trained. Not like a dog, of course, but with every time Mateo and I sit still, the tingling sensation sets in later than the previous time. I didn't notice that at first, but it's obvious now. Last week, I couldn't even stand still for ten seconds. I narrow my eyes at the man in front of me; the man whose sole presence calms me down; the man whom I was afraid of letting in because it meant facing my own darkness; the man who shows me that I am more than that darkness.

We've been in Vienna for four days now. Four days of shared silence, cautious laughter, getting to know each other, and stolen glances. Four days of me circling around the truth, trying to find the right words and failing every time. I'd told myself I'd explain everything the day after he got here, once I had a moment to breathe, but every time the opportunity presents itself, I freeze.

Right now is no different.

"Rose?" Mateo's voice is gentle, pulling me from my thoughts. "You've been stirring that tea for five minutes. Either drink it or put it out of its misery."

I glance down at the cup in front of me, the spoon clinking softly against the porcelain as my hand trembles. I set it down and manage a weak smile. I shift in my seat to ease the tingling, which slowly transitions into the feeling of ripping my bones apart. "Sorry. I'm just...distracted."

He leans back, crossing his arms. "You've been 'distracted' ever since I met you."

I flinch, but his tone isn't accusing. If anything, it's patient, inviting. Normal, like we're friends who have known each other for years.

"I'm not trying to push you," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. "I just...I'm here, Rose. Whenever you're ready."

There it is again. That unshakeable steadiness. That quiet promise I don't know how to accept.

I look out the window, watching the world blur past. People moving, living, existing in ways that seem so effortless. I wonder what it would feel like to be one of them, to not carry this constant weight, this fear of being truly seen.

"It's not that simple," I murmur, more to myself than to him.

Mateo doesn't respond right away. He just waits, his presence steady and patient. He doesn't even release an annoyed sigh, bless him.

"You don't understand," I say, my voice sharper than I intend. I cringe, but he doesn't flinch.

"Then help me," he says softly. "Like I said, help me understand."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and expectant. I open my mouth to speak, to finally say what I've been holding back, but the weight of it lodges in my throat. I look away, my hands clenching into fists in my lap.

How do you tell someone that your life is built on secrets? That the fire inside you isn't just metaphorical? That there's something deeply, fundamentally wrong with you?

"I can't," I whisper, barely audible. I don't want to lose him, as selfish as that is.

"You can," he says, his voice firm but kind. "You just don't want to. Not yet. And that's okay."

His calm acceptance stings more than anger would. It's like he knows me better than I know myself, like he can see through all the walls I've put up.

The clock on the café wall chimes softly, marking the hour. Eight o'clock. The sound feels louder than it should, cutting through the tension like a sharp blade.

Mateo shifts in his seat, his gaze still fixed on me. "You know," he says, his tone lighter now, "if this was a movie, this is the part where the big confession happens. You'd say something dramatic, I'd say something equally dramatic, and then we'd have a big, sweeping moment of understanding. I'd probably sweep you up into my arms and we'd share a passionate kiss."

Despite myself, I smile and colour rises to my cheeks. "Life isn't a movie."

"Good," he says, leaning forward with a smirk. "Movies are predictable. I like not knowing what's coming next."

His words disarm me, breaking through the tension in a way only he can. I know every person is unique, but I've met a lot of them. Ultimately, we're all the same. Yet, sometimes, someone stands out to us. It's that subjective sense of someone being different. Mateo is that someone to me. I've never met anyone like him.

I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding, the corners of my mouth lifting just slightly. "Touché."

"Still," he continues, his voice softening again, "I don't need the whole story right now. I just need to know if you want me here. If this-" he gestures between us, his hand brushing lightly against mine, sending tingles of another kind through my body, "is something you're willing to let happen."

I stare at him, my heart pounding in my chest. The answer is on the tip of my tongue, but the fear is louder. What if he leaves once he knows the truth? What if I break him the way I've broken everything else, including myself?

But there's a small voice at the back of my mind, whispering innocently: what if he stays?

"I want you here," I say finally, the words barely more than a whisper.

Mateo's smile is slow, warm, and utterly disarming. He doesn't say anything, just squeezes my hand gently, like it's enough for now.

And for the first time in years, I think it might be. I don't want to be like this. I want to change. And I will begin by telling him the truth. But, first, I have to show him something.