Matthew

The room is quiet. You're sitting next to each other on the couch. His hand is on your waist, his fingers slowly stroking the fabric of your T-shirt. Everything is calm. Almost perfect.

You laugh at something, turn to him...

• Listen, Artyom, I wanted to ask

Silence.
His hand freezes.
He is not Artyom.
You realize it a second later. Too late.
The air seems to become heavier.

— Repeat.

— his voice is even. Too even.

• I... misspoke,
  — You say quickly, feeling your cheeks burn. — It was an accident.

He slowly removes his hand from your waist. Not abruptly. Calmly. But there's more tension in this calm than in the scream.

• Accidentally?

— he asks quietly.
He looks at you carefully. He's not angry. He doesn't raise his voice. He's just studying you, as if trying to figure out where that name even came from.

— Do you often think about him?

— his fingers clench on his knee.

• No. It doesn't mean anything.

He leans back on the couch, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, a gesture that occurs when he's holding back.

— It doesn’t mean anything…

— he repeats quietly.
The pause drags on.
He leans towards you again, closer than necessary. His gaze is darker than usual.

• Then why do you say his name when you look at me?