✧ nobody's son ✧

[matteo-russo]

Matteo ran a hand through his hair and offered a small, almost sheepish smile, settling into the booth across from her. “Yeah, I'm real sorry about that,” he said, voice low, careful. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Late nights just happen to the both of us, I guess.” He nodded toward her half-empty bowl. “Looks like you salvaged dinner, at least.” There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes at the idea of inhaling a grilled cheese, and he let himself relax just enough to acknowledge it. When she brought up his girlfriend, Matteo stiffened slightly, but only in the way someone tenses when they’re forced to confront a truth they already know. He nodded slowly, as if confirming something obvious to himself. “Not really,” he admitted, voice quiet. “Hanging out with her friends, every day, it gets to me. They all kind of blur together, honestly. I can’t remember faces most of the time, it’s lik, a crowd of the same person.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed but unashamed. “I just needed a break tonight. To not feel so surrounded. I can only take so much girl talk" He caught her glance as she hesitated, then offered a genuine, small smile. “Yeah sitting sounds good,” he said, pulling the chair out just enough to join her at the table. “I promise I’m not trying to be weird or anything.” He leaned back slightly, letting the quiet of the café settle around them, the soft hum of other diners giving him a little distance from the world outside. “Just needed some normal. You know? A night where it’s just me and not a dozen other people that I can’t tell apart.” He nodded again, more to himself than her, as if grounding himself in that simple truth. “Thanks for letting me sit wit you,” he added softly, eyes flicking to hers. “I mean, it’s nice to have a pause.” Matteo leaned back just slightly, letting the quiet settle for a moment before he asked, his voice low but curious, “So, enough about me.” He gave a small shrug, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “How’s life been? What have you been up to?” He watched her as he spoke, genuinely interested, letting the question hang in the space between them. It wasn’t small talk, he wanted to know, really know, what she’d been doing, how she’d been living these past months. “I mean, you’re still around here, I guess,” he added softly, “but it feels like forever since we actually talked like this.”

[aaliyahbcnnett]

she shouldn’t be jealous, they broke up. she could ask about his girlfriend, they couldn’t escape each other, they worked in the same place, they were neighbors, and they co-parented a cat. it wasn’t like aaliyah was going to make him disappear from her life, it wasn’t like she wanted to. "so they’re the same people in a different font, but you can’t tell?" she chuckled, "don’t ever lean in for a kiss in case you end up kissing a friend instead of her," she joked, not meaning any harm, she knew about his face blindness, she was just trying to make light of it. "you don’t want girl talk and… you’re here talking to another girl, or do you consider me one of the guys?" she raised one eyebrow, a playful smirk on her lips. as he sat down, she smiled. "it’s fine, you’re weird by nature," she teased. "you don’t need to thank me for that, matteo, you’re good," she added with a small nod. she took a sip from her water and placed the glass between them in case he wanted some, so natural she didn’t even think about it. when he asked about her life, aaliyah shrugged. "nothing really special, kids are overly excited and annoying because of spring for some reason," she started, "so i get home really exhausted, they recharge using my energy, i swear," she chuckled. "but other than that, it’s just walking home, reading a little before i fall asleep, and being with jake," she nodded "i went to braid saloon as you can tell, that's probably the most exciting thing about my life recenty". she didn’t have many friends, just one best friend, and that was pretty much it; she talked to everyone at work, but she wasn’t as outgoing as the rest. "life is the same as it was before, and probably will be the same forever," she shrugged. "are you going to the teachers’ dinner in two weeks?" she asked. "i was thinking about going, but they normally sit me in a corner and i don’t get to catch much of the conversation," she admitted, "it would be better if i had someone there to talk to," she added softly. "it’s lame as fuck, but it is what it is, i’m not a social butterfly like your girl, i can’t remember her name," she mused.

[matteo-russo]

Matteo had spent the evening outside, peering through his telescope at the stars, tracing constellations as the cold night air nipped at his cheeks. Eventually, he shivered, realising he’d stayed out far longer than he intended, and decided to call it a night. As he turned to head inside one of his favourite stops, he spotted Aaliyah curled up on the worn velvet couch of the coffee shop, her laptop out and a steaming bowl in her hands. He approached slowly, not wanting to startle her, though judging by her sudden jump, he hadn’t been quick enough. “Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Matteo said, leaning casually on the edge of the table. “I was just outside looking at the stars got cold and decided to come and get something to soothe the chill in my bones.” He smiled lightly, gesturing toward her bowl. “That looks way better than what I could’ve managed on an empty stomach. What are you having?” His tone was warm and teasing, aiming to ease the tension from her sudden fright while sparking a bit of conversation. "My girlfriend pissed me off, so I was out there staring into the universe, hoping for a little guidance." He paused, searching her face. “Tell me, is it really my fault if I don’t wanna hang out with her and her friends nearly every night, I’m trying, but I just can't cope."

[aaliyahbcnnett]

she hadn’t expected to see matteo that night. logically, it shouldn’t have been that surprising—they were neighbors after all—but in her mind it still felt like something impossible, like running into a ghost she hadn’t quite managed to forget. “yeah, well… you did scare me,” she said, nodding as she set the bowl of tomato soup back on the table. “and if you keep staying out this late, you’re going to catch the flu or something,” she added, her tone caught somewhere between scolding and awkward concern. she gestured toward the table with a small shrug. “that looks way better than the crackers i have at home. my kitchen’s not working and i don’t even have water, so… i figured i’d enjoy a little café time.” a faint smile tugged at her lips. “it was a grilled cheese with tomato soup, but i basically inhaled the sandwich, so now i’m just left with the soup.” she was honestly relieved the place served something close to dinner; otherwise she would’ve had to go somewhere else, and walking around town late at night wasn’t exactly her favorite thing—especially since she didn’t drive. when he mentioned his girlfriend, something tightened painfully in her chest. she hoped it didn’t show. that chapter had closed a while ago, whether she liked it or not. “i guess hanging out with her friends every night isn’t really your thing,” she said with a small nod. “a saturday night with friends is fine, but every day? sounds like you’ve got yourself a social butterfly.” not like her. she’d tried dating other people after him—guys who were nice enough—but nothing ever really worked. these days it was mostly just her and jake the cat… and the lingering thought of matteo she never fully managed to shake. she hesitated for a moment before glancing up at him. “i don’t know if your girl would be okay with this,” she admitted lightly, reaching for the remote and pausing the reality show she’d been half watching. she’d already missed most of the argument anyway. “but… do you want to sit down?” she asked.

[aaliyahbcnnett]

✧ afternoons ✧

All her afternoons unfolded with the same choreography, so predictable she could measure them without looking at a clock. At three o’clock sharp, the bell rang and her classroom dissolved into motion—chairs scraping, pencil cases zipping, the constellation rug abandoned in a flurry of small sneakers. Aaliyah gathered them with practiced ease, her voice never rising but always carrying. She walked them down the hallway in pairs, reminding one to zip his coat, another to stop spinning, another to hold the line. By the time they reached the front doors, the noise outside was already swelling: engines idling, siblings arguing, parents calling names into the wind. She positioned herself just outside the threshold, back straight, clipboard tucked under her arm, thirty wiggling third graders lined up behind her like bright, impatient dominoes.

There was only one rule. “Tell me who you’re going with.”

They obeyed enthusiastically and all at once. “My mom!” “Grandpa!” “My babysitter but she has purple hair today!” “My dad but he’s on the phone but he said he’s here!” Their voices layered over one another until it was nearly impossible to separate them, but Aaliyah somehow did. She bent to eye level. She scanned faces in the crowd. She matched child to adult with the precision of someone who understood that this small ritual mattered. She kept count in her head the entire time, never losing track, never letting the line thin without knowing exactly who was left.

And sometimes, in the brief pauses between pick-ups, her gaze drifted across the street to the high school building. The doors there burst open with a different kind of energy—louder but freer. Teenagers poured out in groups and pairs, laughing, shoving, already halfway into their own independence. They didn’t wait to be claimed. They left because they could. No one stood at the door asking who they belonged to. Among them, moving at an unhurried pace that always seemed slightly out of sync with the rest of the world, was Matteo. Hands in his coat pockets. Shoulders relaxed. He walked like someone thinking about something far away, something measured in light-years instead of minutes. Sometimes she caught the tilt of his head as he listened to a student. Sometimes he was already halfway down the sidewalk before she could let herself look too long.

By the time the last child had been handed off safely, the noise outside softened into scattered conversations and car doors slamming. Aaliyah double-checked her clipboard, stepped back inside to turn off the hallway lights, and collected her bags. She always carried too much—lesson plans she insisted on reviewing at home, half-graded essays, the emergency snack pouch she refilled religiously, her lunch container she’d barely had time to touch. She’d never bought a car. She used to joke about wanting one of those tiny, impractical ones that could barely fit a driver. “Just enough space for me, Matteo, and a sandwich each,” she’d teased once, imagining their knees knocking because there wasn’t room for distance. It had been easier to joke about cramped space than about closeness. If she needed to drive somewhere, Matteo had always done it without question. He never made it feel like a favor.

Now she walked.

The route home wasn’t long, but after a full day of holding thirty small worlds together, it felt longer. Her shoulders ached from her bags. The late afternoon air pressed cool against her skin. She passed familiar storefronts and cracked sidewalks, her thoughts drifting in that quiet, unguarded way they only did when no one was asking anything of her. By the time she reached her porch, exhaustion had settled into her bones—not dramatic, not visible, but steady.

Matteo’s car was already parked next door. Like clockwork, her phone buzzed in her hand.

Jake is at your door.

Right on cue, a sharp, indignant meow sounded from the other side of it. She couldn’t help smiling as she crouched down. “Hi, Jake,” she murmured, scratching under his chin. The cat leaned into her palm immediately, tail flicking with approval, as if she’d been gone far longer than a school day.

She set her lunch bag on the floor beside her tote, papers threatening to spill out the top. She unlocked the door, Jake slipping inside with proprietary confidence. The house greeted her with stillness, the kind that amplified how tired she actually was. She didn’t bother tidying the small pile of belongings by the entryway. She told herself she would later. She always did.

Her shoes came off first. Then her cardigan, draped carelessly over a chair instead of folded like she preferred. She walked straight to the couch—the old one with the slight dip in the center—and let herself fall onto it face-first with a low, unfiltered groan. The cushions swallowed her weight. For a moment she didn’t move at all.

“Help me win the lottery so I don’t have to walk home ever again, Jake,” she mumbled into the pillow.

Jake answered with a short, unimpressed meow before jumping up beside her, circling twice and settling against her side.

She turned her head slightly. “Thanks, Jake. That really helps.”

He pressed closer anyway, a small, steady warmth against her ribs.

Her phone buzzed again.

You home?

She stared at the message longer than she meant to.

Yes. Jake says hi.

A pause. Then: Tell him I expect rent soon.

Aaliyah’s lips curved despite herself. She could picture him next door, maybe lining up one of those broken watches he collected for reasons she’d never fully understood, thinking about collapsing stars while she lay here calculating how much energy it would take to stand up again. Matteo thought in constellations and orbital cycles. She thought in grocery lists and spelling tests. Somehow they’d once met in the middle.

Jake’s purring deepened, rhythmic and grounding.

Aaliyah stared at the ceiling, letting the exhaustion settle without fighting it. She spent her days being steady—counting children, softening chaos, absorbing small hurts before they grew sharp. She was dependable in every visible way. But here, in the quiet of her living room, with her bags abandoned by the door and her composure finally allowed to slip, she let herself simply be tired. Not composed. Not accommodating. Just tired.

She closed her eyes briefly, one hand resting against Jake’s back, and wondered—not for the first time—what it would feel like to have someone walk in without texting first. To notice the weight she carried before she set it down. To sit beside her on this worn couch and say, gently, “You don’t have to hold everything together tonight.”

Jake shifted, pressing closer as if in answer.

For now, she stayed where she was, suspended in that quiet in-between space she’d always known so well.

[aaliyahbcnnett]

✧ miss bennett and mr. russo ✧

Aaliyah has discovered that eight-year-olds treat her life like an ongoing chapter book they’re personally invested in. It usually begins during read-aloud, when she’s mid-sentence and a small hand lifts with urgent importance. “Miss Bennett,” one of them will whisper loudly, “do you have babies?” She lowers the book slightly, smiling with that practiced warmth that never quite cracks. “No, sweetheart.” That should close the discussion. It doesn’t. “Are you going to?” “Are you married?” “Are you going to marry Mr. Russo?” That question always makes the room go very still for half a second, like even the fairy lights in the reading corner are waiting for her answer. She keeps her voice gentle, measured. “Mr. Russo teaches high school,” she says lightly, redirecting without dismissing. “And right now we’re focusing on character development.” They groan. They whisper. They make charts in their heads. Children are observant in ways adults underestimate. They’ve seen Matteo drop off the cat carrier on mornings when she has early duty. They’ve seen him linger in the hallway, low voice steady as he asks if she needs help carrying book orders. They notice the way her shoulders soften when she hears him before she sees him.

The older students are less obvious but far more relentless. They corner Matteo after class, leaning on lab tables, pretending it’s casual. “Sir, are you and Miss Bennett together?” Matteo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deflect with humor. He doesn’t offer clarification. He simply goes quiet. He finishes erasing the board. He stacks papers. If they push again—“But you live next door, right?”—he adjusts his watch, the broken one he keeps out of habit, and says nothing at all. Silence, steady and deliberate. The lack of response only fuels them. Teenagers are allergic to ambiguity. The more he withholds, the more they speculate. He never lies; he just refuses the premise. When the questions persist, he shifts the topic entirely. “Open your textbooks to page 214,” he’ll say calmly. Or he’ll begin explaining stellar binaries—two massive bodies locked in orbit, influencing each other’s paths without ever fully merging. He never points out the metaphor. He doesn’t have to. His silence becomes its own gravitational force, pulling curiosity tighter instead of easing it.

Their breakup had not been explosive. No slammed doors. No public unraveling. It had been quieter, heavier. Aaliyah’s family—big, loving, deeply Christian—had expectations woven into every Sunday dinner. Marriage wasn’t just romance; it was covenant. Stability. A timeline. Subtle questions sharpened into not-so-subtle ones. Was he attending church regularly? Did he believe the same things? When would they make it official? Matteo’s parents, practical and culturally Catholic but not devout, didn’t see urgency in ceremony or doctrine. To them, partnership was enough. To Aaliyah’s family, it wasn’t. The tension didn’t erupt; it accumulated. Aaliyah felt herself bending again, smoothing conversations, translating values, trying to be the bridge she’d always been. Matteo, uncomfortable with ideological debates and emotional ultimatums, withdrew into analysis. He doesn’t argue loudly. He steps back, observing, going distant when pressure rises. She felt the space growing. He felt the weight of expectation as noise he couldn’t filter out.

So they chose distance before resentment could calcify.

And yet, they never truly left each other’s orbit. They share a cat—an indifferent black and white creature who refuses to acknowledge the breakup and moves between apartments as if nothing changed. They live next door. They work in the same building, separated by age groups and hallways but not by presence. They exchange spare keys for practicality. They text about vet appointments. Some mornings he knocks lightly before school, voice low and familiar: “She’s at your door.” Aaliyah opens it, already smiling, already composed. In the hallway at work, they stand a little too close for people who insist there’s nothing to explain.

When her students ask if she’s going to marry him, she laughs softly and hands out spelling worksheets. When his students demand answers, Matteo gives them none. The silence makes them more certain something exists. After school, sometimes they end up walking out together by accident—or by habit. He tells her about a student who finally understood gravitational pressure. She tells him about a child who read aloud without shaking. Their conversations are easy. Careful. Undefined.

The children want clarity. A proposal. A baby. A label they can write on construction paper. Aaliyah wants peace. Matteo wants quiet. Instead, they remain suspended between what they were and what they might still be—two people who never stopped caring, navigating faith, family, and expectation like unstable elements in a shared equation. And every time a small voice asks, “Miss Bennett, are you going to marry Mr. Russo?” she smiles, steady as ever, and says, “Let’s get back to our story,” while her heart quietly measures distances no lesson plan can quite resolve.

[aaliyahbcnnett]

aaliyah had never really had a sweet tooth—she could appreciate a dangerously sugary dessert once in a while, but she’d pick something savory every single time. tonight, though, she was camped out on the worn velvet couch of a coffee shop that stayed open far too late for its own good, a steaming bowl of something warm in her hands. her kitchen was out of order until tomorrow, and she refused to survive on crackers alone. the place was close to her apartment, so the darkness outside didn’t bother her much. what did bother her, however, was the fact that she was fully invested in a chaotic reality dating show playing on her laptop—the exact kind she warned her older students would “rot their brains.” people arguing over love in dramatic slow motion? absolutely her guilty pleasure. she was mid-gasp at an argument when she suddenly sensed someone leaning over her shoulder. she jumped, snapping her laptop shut like she’d been caught committing a crime. “jeez!” she pressed a hand to her chest, glaring up at him. “you cannot sneak up on people like that.” recognizing teo, her brows furrowed deeper, though there was a flicker of embarrassment in her eyes. “what are you doing here?” @matteo-russo

[soulshines]

sofia   bryant   as   anika   johnson   in   tsitp   (3.02)

[aaliyahbcnnett]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ this is aaliyah

name:  aaliyah

nicknames: liyah, ally, lulu

age: twenty5

sexuality: bisexual

relationship status: tbd.

Aaliyah Bennett has always understood how to exist in the in-between.

As the middle child in a big, affectionate, slightly chaotic family, she learned early that love didn’t always come with spotlight. Her parents are still together — steady, devoted, the kind of couple who built their life through hard work and late nights — but they were often busy, juggling careers and responsibilities. Her older sibling was the trailblazer. Her younger sibling was the baby. Aaliyah became the bridge. The negotiator. The one who smoothed arguments before they turned sharp and offered compromise before anyone asked for it.

She didn’t decide to be low-maintenance. She just became that way.

Growing up, she was the child teachers described as “a pleasure to have in class.” Responsible. Mature. Self-sufficient. The kind who never caused trouble and rarely asked for help. What most people missed was how much she internalized — disappointments, hurt feelings, quiet insecurities — because she didn’t want to add weight to anyone else’s load. She learned that being easy made life easier for everyone.

Now, as a third-grade teacher, Aaliyah has built a world that reflects the parts of herself she once kept tucked away.

Her classroom is warm and lived-in — colorful borders, slightly crooked handmade posters, shelves overflowing with dog-eared books. There are fairy lights strung gently along the reading corner and a rug patterned with constellations where her students sit during story time. She teaches reading and creative writing, and she treats both like sacred ground. To her, literacy isn’t just curriculum — it’s power. It’s imagination. It’s freedom.

She keeps emergency snacks in her desk drawer — granola bars, crackers, fruit gummies — and pretends it’s “just in case.” She knows exactly which students skip breakfast. She notices who lingers at her desk a little longer after class. She celebrates small victories with disproportionate pride. When one of her quieter students volunteers to read aloud for the first time, she feels it like a personal triumph.

Aaliyah believes deeply in growth. In second chances. In the idea that people are capable of becoming more than their worst days.

She is warm, but not effervescent. Her kindness is steady, not sparkling. She doesn’t overwhelm a room; she softens it. Her voice carries calm authority, the kind that doesn’t need to be raised to be respected. When she’s comfortable, a subtle, slightly sarcastic humor surfaces — clever, understated, and perfectly timed. It surprises people, makes them look at her twice.

She is organized in nearly every visible aspect of her life. Lesson plans are color-coded. Emails answered promptly. Birthdays remembered. She shows up early. She leaves late. Reliability is her love language.

But beneath that structure, her emotional world is far less tidy.

Aaliyah is romantic in theory and cautious in practice. She believes in happy endings the way she believes in her students — wholeheartedly and without cynicism. She loves the idea of partnership, of someone choosing you every day. She gives her friends thoughtful, emotionally intelligent advice about communication and vulnerability. She is the one everyone calls during a crisis because she listens without judgment and speaks with clarity.

Yet when it comes to her own heart, she hesitates at the edge.

Risk terrifies her — not physical risk, but emotional exposure. She has spent so much of her life being dependable that the idea of leaning on someone feels foreign, almost indulgent. She overcommits to work because it’s predictable. She pours energy into others because it feels safer than asking for it in return. And when she starts to care deeply about someone, her instinct is to retreat slightly — to create space before they can.

She hates disappointing people. The thought of being the reason someone feels hurt or let down keeps her awake at night. So she bends. Adjusts. Accommodates. Sometimes to the point of exhaustion. Burnout is something she hides well — a tight smile, a longer shower, a quiet cry she never mentions.

She also holds grudges, though she’d never describe it that way. When someone hurts her, she doesn’t explode or confront immediately. She absorbs it. Files it away. The wound heals on the surface, but the memory lingers.

Aaliyah’s greatest flaw is that she doesn’t know how to let herself be taken care of.

She’s used to being “the strong one.” The reasonable one. The composed one. People lean on her because she appears unshakable. What they don’t always see is how much she longs for someone to notice when she’s tired. To ask how she’s really doing — and wait for the honest answer.

There’s a quiet ache in her — not dramatic, not loud, but persistent. She believes in love with her whole heart. She just doesn’t always believe she’ll be someone’s first choice. Being the middle child taught her how to be essential without being central. That lesson lingers more than she’d like.

And yet, Aaliyah Bennett is full of hope.

She still tears up at her students’ handwritten stories. She still keeps every thank-you note. She still believes that people can grow into better versions of themselves. She still imagines a future where someone sees past her responsibility and composure and says, “You don’t have to hold everything together with me.”

She builds confidence in children every single day.

She’s just learning — slowly, carefully — how to build it within herself.