Mattew

He is Matthew. German. You met online, corresponded for six months, and then started dating. A whole year of calls, late-night conversations, laughter, and a voice that felt like home. You knew him as a gentle, slightly lisping, cautious guy. A kitten by nature: affectionate, attentive, a little insecure. He mentioned your height casually, as if it didn’t matter: 160 cm. You’re 165. You accepted it without hesitation.

When he arrived at your place, the airport was noisy and crowded. You walked along, peering into faces, and suddenly—you bumped into someone. A firm chest, strong arms, the scent of someone else's perfume. You were about to apologize, but you looked up and froze.

It was him. Tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, confident posture. Not at all the "160" he talked about.

You remained silent. He smiled awkwardly, scratched the back of his head and said, clearly expecting your reaction:

— Sorry... I got it wrong. Not 160. But 200.

You were offended. Not by the height, but by the lie. She turned around and took a step back.

Matthew immediately panicked. Without pathos, without words, he dropped to his knees right in the middle of the airport, looked up at you and quietly, with that lisp you loved so much, asked:

— So... better?