Lost days club

IV.Mateo

The west-wing restroom near the main library existed in a strange pocket of campus solitude. Seldom used except during finals week, its dated tiles and flickering fluorescent lights deterred casual visitors. This suited Professor Ignacio Herrera perfectly as he pushed open the heavy door, seeking a moment of quiet between back-to-back lectures. The sound that greeted him—muffled sobs coming from the last stall—stopped him midstep. He hesitated, familiar with the unspoken code of bathroom privacy, but something in the quality of those sobs—their raw desperation—overrode social convention. "Hello?" he called, moving toward the partially open stall door. "Are you alright?" The crying abruptly ceased, replaced by the unmistakable sounds of panicked movement. Professor Herrera gently pushed the door, revealing Mateo Delgado crumpled against the tiled wall, a bloodied razor clutched in his trembling hand.

Recognition passed between them in an instant. Professor Herrera knew Mateo from his Comparative Literature course last semester—a brilliant but inconsistent student who would offer profound insights one day and disappear for a week the next. Mateo recognized Herrera as one of the few professors who had seemed to understand the subtext in his essays, who had written comments that went beyond academics to touch something deeper.

"Mateo," Herrera said softly, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled space. He knelt down, his knees protesting against the hard floor, and reached out with steady hands. "Let me have that."

Mateo's fingers refused to release the small blade. His eyes, clear and observant even in distress, darted between the professor's face and the door, calculating escape routes that his body was too weak to take. A thin line of blood tracked down his wrist—not deep, but deliberate enough to be concerning.

"I don't..." Mateo began, his voice cracking. "This isn't what it looks like."

But it was exactly what it looked like, and they both knew it. The cut was shallow, more symbolic than dangerous—the physical manifestation of a pain too abstract to otherwise express. Professor Herrera didn't argue or contradict. Instead, he remained steady, his hand still outstretched, his eyes locked on Mateo's.

"The water will help," he said simply. "Cold water on the cut. Will you come to the sink with me?"

Something in the practical request broke through Mateo's paralysis. He nodded once, allowing Herrera to help him to his feet. The razor clattered to the floor, forgotten as they moved to the row of sinks. Under the professor's guidance, Mateo held his wrist under the cold stream, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant electrical hum that filled the silence between them.

"Your brother's death wasn't your fault," Herrera said finally, his voice low but clear.

Mateo's head snapped up, his reflection in the bathroom mirror showing naked shock. "How did you—"

"Your final essay last semester," Herrera explained gently. "About absence as presence in modern literature. You wrote about a character who continued living with a ghost 'not of supernatural origin but of familial absence.' The details were fiction, but the emotion was real." He handed Mateo a paper towel for his wrist. "I've been teaching long enough to recognize when students are writing their own truths through other stories."

Mateo pressed the paper towel against his skin, the minor wound already beginning to close. His eyes, usually distant, focused intensely on Herrera's face. "Promise you won't tell anyone," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "About my brother, about this... I can't have people knowing."

Herrera placed a hand on Mateo's shoulder, feeling the sharp bone beneath the worn cardigan. The boy was too thin, too hollow-eyed—signs he'd been noticing all semester but had hesitated to address directly. "I promise to keep your confidence about your brother," he said carefully. "But this"—he gestured to Mateo's wrist—"I can't ignore this. You need help, Mateo."

"I don't need—" Mateo began, but the fight seemed to drain from him mid-sentence. He leaned against the sink, suddenly looking very young and very tired. "I'm handling it."

"This isn't handling it," Herrera said, not unkindly. "This is drowning in private."

Mateo stared at the floor, his dark hair falling across his forehead. "Sometimes it's too much," he admitted. "Knowing he's gone because I wasn't there. Knowing I could have stopped it."

"Or perhaps not," Herrera said gently. "We can't know what might have been different. We can only decide what to do with the life we have now."

The moment hung between them, fragile and significant. Then, from outside, the sound of approaching voices broke the spell. Mateo straightened, instinctively pulling his sleeve down over his wrist.

"I need to report this," Herrera said, his tone apologetic but firm. "But I'll stay with you through it."

"You don't understand," Mateo said, a new urgency in his voice. "I have things I need to do. People I need to help. I can't be sidelined with counseling sessions and suicide watches."

The intensity of his statement gave Herrera pause. There was something in Mateo's tone that went beyond typical student distress—a sense of mission that seemed both concerning and compelling.

"What people?" Herrera asked, but before Mateo could answer, the bathroom door swung open.

Two campus security officers entered, responding to Herrera's discreet text sent while Mateo had been washing his wrist. Their presence filled the small space, their uniforms and walkie-talkies incongruous against the faded tile walls.

"Professor Herrera?" the taller officer asked. "You reported a situation?"

What followed was a process both efficient and impersonal. The security officers documented the incident, photographed the discarded razor, and asked questions that reduced Mateo's complex pain to checkboxes on a digital form. Mateo answered mechanically, his earlier vulnerability replaced by a practiced detachment that Herrera recognized from class—the mask Mateo wore when retreating from the world.

"Is he on any medication?" an officer asked Herrera, as if Mateo were not present.

"You'd need to ask him," Herrera replied pointedly, drawing the officer's attention back to Mateo.

"No medications," Mateo said. "No previous attempts. No current plan. I'm not a statistic waiting to happen."

His articulation seemed to reassure the officers, who exchanged glances that suggested they were categorizing this as a minor incident rather than an emergency. One of them made a call, speaking in the coded language of campus security, while the other escorted Mateo and Herrera to the health center.

The university's protocol for such incidents involved a brief evaluation by a counselor, followed by recommendations that balanced student welfare with institutional liability. Mateo sat through the assessment with the air of someone who knew exactly what to say to avoid hospitalization—acknowledging enough to seem cooperative while minimizing enough to maintain his freedom.

"Given the superficial nature of the injury and your willingness to engage in follow-up care," the counselor said finally, "we'll be assigning you to our Structured Support Program rather than recommending medical leave."

Mateo nodded, relief visible in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. The Structured Support Program meant mandatory counseling sessions but allowed him to continue his classes. It also included, as the counselor explained, participation in a supervised community engagement activity—specifically, three sessions of organized service in the university archives.

"Room 312, humanities building, Friday after classes," the counselor said, handing Mateo a slip similar to a detention assignment. "You'll be working with a small group of other students on a special project."

Outside the health center, Professor Herrera waited. Mateo paused, surprised by the older man's continued presence.

"You didn't have to stay," Mateo said, the assignment slip clutched in his hand.

"I wanted to make sure you were alright," Herrera replied simply. "And to tell you that my door is always open, whether for academic discussions or... otherwise."

Mateo nodded, unable to fully articulate his gratitude but feeling it nonetheless. "I should go," he said. "I have things to prepare before Friday."

"The archive project?" Herrera asked.

"Something like that," Mateo said, a flicker of his earlier intensity returning. He hesitated, then added, "Thank you. For finding me. For seeing me."

As Mateo walked away, Herrera watched him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. There was something unusual about the boy—a quality that went beyond typical student struggles. It was as if Mateo were carrying not just his own burden but some greater purpose that Herrera couldn't quite discern.

Friday afternoon found Mateo climbing the stairs to the third floor of the humanities building, each step deliberate and measured. The wound on his wrist had already faded to a thin pink line, but the conversation with Herrera lingered in his mind. Being seen—truly seen—was rare enough to be unsettling.

Room 312 was at the end of a seldom-used corridor. Mateo paused outside the door, hearing the shuffle of movement within. He had researched the other students assigned to this session—a habit born of both curiosity and self-preservation. Valentina Arce, the law student with hidden artistic talent. Tomás Rivas, the engineering prodigy paralyzed by perfectionism. Luna Serrano, the social media personality with a carefully constructed image. Three strangers with nothing in common except the secrets they kept from the world.

Mateo entered quietly, his presence barely disturbing the air of the room. Valentina sat near the window, her slender fingers nervously tapping a pencil against a notebook. Tomás occupied a desk in the middle, his posture rigid with discomfort. Luna had positioned herself strategically, as if even in detention she were framing a shot.

None of them looked up as Mateo took a seat in the far corner, half-hidden in shadow. This suited him perfectly. He preferred to observe before engaging, to understand the dynamics at play. His eyes moved from one student to another, noting details others might miss—the ink stains on Valentina's fingers, the way Tomás's thumb rubbed anxiously along the seam of his notebook, the calculated casualness of Luna's posture.

What none of them knew, what none of them could possibly suspect, was that their presence in this room was not an accident of bureaucratic assignment. Mateo had orchestrated this convergence with meticulous care, leaving the notebook where it would be found, ensuring that these specific students would be brought together under the guise of punishment.

As the silence stretched between them, Mateo felt both the weight of his responsibility and the first tentative hope that his plan might succeed. Four broken people in one room—each missing something essential, each holding a piece of the others' healing. The Lost Days Club was about to begin again, though they didn't know it yet. And this time, Mateo was determined that the ending would be different.