"How's the application going?" Helen asked. She was archiving him, basically—shoving the last of the documents into a manila folder with a terrifying amount of precision. Her eyes flickered toward him for a nanosecond, checking on Matthew, who was bathed in the unflattering blue light of his laptop, doom-scrolling the admissions page of Northerners.
"Why's the net so bloody slow? It's only 10 in the morning!" He groaned, thwacking his mouse like it owed him money, clicking randomly at the screen as if sheer aggression could make the Wi-Fi move faster. It reminded him of a memory—of a Sunday post van making its rounds in the drizzle or the time he rode a double-decker bus inching through Piccadilly Circus.
"Does this place even have an art budget?" Matthew asked, opening another tab. He wasn't asking, he was reading them. It was his way of coping, sneering at this flimsy university so he didn't have to process the fact that the institutions back in the UK—the ones with the prestige—had left him on read.
But honestly? The rejection was starting to feel like background noise. After the UCAS disaster, and when he got word that his dad's death was leading them out of the country, Matthew couldn't find any reason to make an effort to get into the golden or triangle group.
"Well..." His mother sighed.
Neither of them wanted him to be a painter—his parents. The "Art Thing" was the elephant in the room that they both pretended was a piece of avant-garde furniture. His father used to get loud about it, but his mother? She just dissociated whenever the topic came up.
Helen drifted behind him, invading his already tense personal space. She peered over his shoulder, and her gaze snagged on the screen: Bachelor's Degree in Painting.
Her face did a complicated thing. It was a micro-aggression wrapped in a smile—the kind of look that tried too hard to be supportive, but screamed disappointment. She looked like she was smelling something faintly expensive but spoiled.
"I heard their Architecture program is excellent," she said, her voice doing a delicate dance around the truth. "I'm just not sure about their Fine Arts. There are no metrics to compare it with. It seems...well, it just seems unverified."
Matthew knew the tone. It was the soft power play. Unlike his dad's harsh judgement, mom was a little bit kinder with his interests. It was what made them close, usually, but right now it just felt like a trap.
"Architecture is—"
"I'm heading out," she cut in. She didn't have the bandwidth for this conversation. She had to travel to Batac, to pass whatever the hospital wanted from her.
Matthew's mouth hung open, half-forming a defense, as she leaned in. She pressed a kiss to his forehead that felt entirely performative—rushed, dry, a receipt of affection rather than the actual thing.
Helen smiled, a thing she does when she wished Matthew a nice day. Once the door closed and the sound of a ghastly tricycle faded in the distance, unfortunately, Amor, popped out from the kitchen with her usual chavvy annoying bravado.
She basically took Matthew's groan as an invitation, ignoring the fact that he was staring at her with an exhausted death glare that looked almost like a soggy London commuter on the Tube.
"What?" He asked as she closed in.
"Do you need any help?" She knew he didn't need anything, but she just wanted to talk to him—if it wasn't him, she would be bothering...ahhh...that guy, Felix.
Whatever that was—that static electricity that had just arced between them—it had to be nothing. It had to be deleted footage. But he couldn't shake the sensation; it was liquefying, a heat that started in his chest and made his feet feel heavy, like he was sinking into the floorboards. He had gone against his better judgment just by standing there. If the silence had stretched for a millisecond longer, if Tita Dawn had stayed asleep in the other room, if he had let himself lean over that terrifying, magnetic cliff edge...
"Actually, I'm done." Matthew snapped the laptop shut—a guillotine on the moment. He stood up abruptly, moving before Amor could claim the empty space next to him. He pivoted on his heel, aiming for the nearest door. He didn't know what room lay behind it, but it was a distinct location from Here, and that was the only metric that mattered.
"Perfect timing! That means you can be useful!" She squealed. Her voice was melodic, theatrical—pure unadulterated, unapologetic, immature brazen energy.
"Not interested," Matthew said, not breaking stride.
"Come on! It'll be a bonding moment! Mama bought these massive macetas for the backyard, and well..." She trailed off, pressing her palms together in an image of prayer. "I was hoping you'd muscle them around for me. Please!"
"Hard pass," Matthew replied, his hand finding the cold metal of the doorknob.
"Please! Please, please! I'll owe you, like, a life debt! I cannot lift that pottery alone, and Papa is already at the firm."
Matthew knew Tita Dawn was currently off the grid, doing god-knows-what. He hadn't been listening to the breakfast monologue, but the house felt too empty, too echoey.
"You are literally my last hope. Felix said he had 'stuff' to do—which...ok? it's still weeks before school—and I really don't want Mama coming home and launching a full-scale tsinelas assault on me. Please-uh!" She dragged the syllable out. One more shake of her head and she would have been on her knees, prostrating herself on the tiles.
...
...
...
Matthew exhaled, a sound that scraped against his throat. He gripped the doorknob tight, his knuckles turning white. It was the only anchor he had left, the only barrier stopping him from turning around and making a choice he couldn't take back.
"Fine! God you're so annoying." He replied letting himself loose—defeated by his cousins pitiful looking stance, kneeling on the ground as if she were begging for her life. Matthew didn't even twitch, he just gave her the slowest, most exhausted eye-roll he could manage as if he expected it. Honestly, the only thing that would floor him now was if she suddenly started behaving like a goddamn saint.
""Seriously? You mean it?" Amor's gaze shot up to meet his.
"Yes. Now get lost before I change my mind," he shot back, already pivoting toward his room where his laptop waited to be charged.
"No strings attached? Like, zero conditions?" She beamed, springing up from the floor, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a kid who just won the lottery.
"YES!"
Matthew paused, his hand on the doorknob. Wait. A sudden, electric idea flashed through his mind.
"Actually, I do need something."
"Hm?"