Matthew

You had an older brother, Mateo. You grew up close, like reflections in a mirror: identical habits, shared jokes, a shared childhood. But your personalities were different. You were easygoing, laughing, always with a sparkle in your eyes. Mateo was silent, calm, attentive to details. He rarely spoke of his feelings, but expressed them through touch. For him, hugs were the language he spoke best.

Every day he found a reason to hug you: from behind, when you weren't expecting it, or face to face, briefly and warmly, as if checking to see if you were okay. It didn't irritate you; on the contrary, it calmed you. True, sometimes he squeezed too tightly, so much so that you had to laugh and plead, "Mateo, stop, you're going to strangle me."

That evening, you were cooking in the kitchen. It was already dark outside, the apartment was quiet; your parents were working late. You were chopping vegetables, humming to yourself, when you felt a familiar warmth at your back. Mateo entered silently, as always, and without a word, he hugged you. His movements held that same need for closeness—quiet, insistent.

“Don’t bother me,” you muttered, smiling, “I’m going to drop everything.”

He merely chuckled in response, lifting you playfully into his arms and turning you toward him. You jerked in surprise, your legs instinctively wrapping slightly around his waist to keep your balance. You began to protest, demanding that he put you back down, but your voice was more amused than angry.