Mateo || Movie Night

The credits of the first movie roll, a cascade of white text on a black screen that does little to illuminate the comfortable dimness of Mateo’s living room. The only light comes from the flickering end credits and the soft, warm glow of a single lamp in the corner, casting long shadows that make the room feel both intimate and isolating. You’re curled up on one end of the plush, oversized couch, a throw blanket draped over your legs, the empty popcorn bowl resting on the cushion beside you. The air still smells faintly of butter and salt.

It was supposed to be just you and him. Your movie night. The one you’d been looking forward to all week, a small island of normalcy in the chaotic sea of your lives. Just you, Mateo, and a stack of terrible 80s action films you’d both been dying to mock.

Then the key turned in the lock.

“Sorry I’m late, babe,” Clara had chirped, breezing in like a gust of expensive perfume and forced cheer. She’d dropped her purse by the door, kicked off her heels, and plopped down directly in the middle of the couch, effectively claiming the space you’d mentally reserved for Mateo. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

He hadn’t even looked at you, not really. His eyes had lit up, that specific, dazzling brightness that always made your stomach clench. “Hey, you made it,” he’d said, his voice soft in that way you hated because it was never directed at you. He’d leaned over, pecking her on the lips, and just like that, the dynamic had shifted. You were no longer the co-star of the evening; you were the audience.

Now, as the menu screen for the next film loads—a moody, atmospheric thriller you’d picked out—Mateo shifts beside you. But he’s not shifting closer to you. He’s turning towards Clara, who has migrated from the center cushion to practically being in his lap.

“Cold?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the couch frame.

She giggles, a high, delicate sound that grates on your nerves. “A little.” She snuggles deeper into his side, her head fitting perfectly into the crook of his neck. His arm, which had been resting casually along the back of the couch, now wraps securely around her shoulders. His hand, the one you know so well, the one that’s high-fived you a thousand times and ruffled your hair in affection, begins to move.

It starts innocently enough. His thumb traces slow, lazy circles on the fabric of her sweater. You can see the motion from the corner of your eye, a repetitive, maddening caress. You focus on the TV, on the dramatic music swelling as the opening scene begins. You try to lose yourself in the story, to care about the protagonist on screen who is walking into a clearly haunted house.

But you can’t.

Because the soft, rhythmic friction of his thumb against her shoulder is the only thing you can hear. It’s a sound that’s not a sound, a feeling that radiates from them and fills the space between you and them, pushing you further into your corner of the couch. You pull the throw blanket up to your chin, a pathetic shield.

*On screen, the protagonist finds an old diary. In the living room, Mateo’s hand moves again. It slides from her shoulder down her arm, his fingers trailing over her skin. You watch, your jaw tight, as he laces his fingers with hers, bringing their joined hands to his lips to kiss her knuckles. It’s a small gesture, the kind you see in movies, but it feels like a public declaration. A sign that reads ‘Property of Mateo. Do Not Touch.’

Clara sighs, a contented, happy little sound. She tilts her head back, her eyes fluttering closed, and whispers something to him that you can’t quite catch. He chuckles, a deep, warm sound that makes your chest ache. He leans down and presses his lips to her forehead.

You want to scream. You want to throw the remote at the TV. You want to stand up and say, “This is supposed to be our night. You were supposed to watch this with me.”

But you don’t. You just sit there, a silent, invisible third wheel, and watch as he tilts her chin up with his free hand. The movie on the television is forgotten, its dramatic tension a pale imitation of the knot tightening in your gut. His eyes are locked on hers, and you know what’s coming. You’ve seen it before, but never this close. Never when you were the intended audience of one.

He kisses her.

It’s not a chaste peck. It’s slow and deep and ridiculously thorough. His hand moves from her chin to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her to him. She makes a soft noise against his mouth, and her own hand comes up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. The kiss goes on and on, a silent, consuming performance that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with your exclusion.

The dramatic music from the movie swells to a crescendo, a character screams on screen, but all you can hear is the soft, wet sound of their lips parting and meeting again. You stare at the television, at the flickering images of terror and suspense, but your vision is blurry. You feel a hot, prickling sensation behind your eyes and you blink it away, refusing to let it fall.

They finally break apart, resting their foreheads together. They breathe the same air, a closed circuit of intimacy that you are not a part of.

“Mmm,” she hums, her voice hazy and content. “I missed you today.”

“Missed you too,” (he says, his voice thick with an emotion you’ve only ever dreamed of him directing at you.*

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t check to see if you’re still there, if you’re uncomfortable, if you’re even breathing. You are just a piece of furniture, a throw pillow, a forgotten prop in their romantic drama. The blanket suddenly feels suffocating, the air thick and heavy. You are trapped in this small, warm room, a spectator to a love story that was never meant to include you, and the worst part is, you can’t even bring yourself to leave. You just sit there, staring at the screen, and pretend that the movie is the only thing that’s breaking your heart.