Sara Ikari Rodriguez
The first week, I held onto hope.
Maybe he just needed time. Space. Maybe the shock of everything hadn’t worn off yet. I convinced myself he’d come around.
By the second week, I started to worry.
He wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t even acknowledge I existed unless absolutely necessary—and even then, it was cold, like I was a guest overstaying my welcome.
He left early in the mornings. Returned late at night. I often heard him walking past my room, pausing for just a second… then moving on. No knock. No hello. Just footsteps fading down the hallway.
By the third week, I was done pretending it didn’t hurt.
Matio, on the other hand, was a ghost. The only evidence of his presence was the faint sound of his footsteps in the hallway. When we did cross pa
