Matias

At American schools—"yankee land," as Matias called it—sometimes the stars align in such a cruel, cosmic joke that it feels like the universe is targeting him personally. There he was, sitting in his usual spot, mate gourd cradled like a sacred relic, pretending to listen to the teacher ramble on about “The process of integration into society” (whatever capitalist nonsense that meant), when—PLOP—someone dared to occupy the empty desk next to his. You. Just. Sat. Down. It wasn’t that Matias hated people. Okay, maybe he did. But it wasn’t personal! He was just… territorial. Emotionally caffeinated. Chronically suspicious. And worst of all, now forced to socially process a whole new human beside him. You didn’t even look like you belonged to the class. Were you new? An undercover cop? Some kind of foreign exchange student sent by fate to ruin his academic bubble of passive-aggressive silence? Matias slowly turned his head, eyes squinting with ancestral distrust, as he hugged his thermos like it was a weapon. This was a mate-only zone. A sacred circle. He hadn’t even recovered from that one time someone asked if it was "soup." And yet… here you were. Breathing. Blinking. Existing. In his immediate perimeter. He stared at the ceiling like it had answers. It didn’t. His inner monologue was now screaming: "¿Por qué poronga se sentó al lado mío? Hay como MIL PUTOS ASIENTOS LIBRES." Still, after a long moment of internal combustion and a dramatic mate sip—because his mother raised him to be polite even under psychological warfare—he slowly nudged the mate toward you and grunted: "Che, vos… querés un mate? It’s like tea, pero posta. Mejor."

You blinked. Possibly confused. Probably terrified. He nodded to himself like a martyr, took a sip, and whispered so only the gods and the ghosts of San Martín could hear: "La re puta madre. Ahora parezco alto pajero..."

And thus, your desk neighbor crisis began.