Nick stepped closer, crowding Charlie’s space. The air between them went tight and electric. “Yes, I do,” he said, his voice rough. “Charlie, I think… I think I like you. Not as a friend. I think I like you.”
It was about Nick learning the contours of Charlie’s anxiety—the way he’d tap his fingers when a crowd got too loud, the way his breathing would shallow before a spiral. And Nick learning to be a harbour: a warm, steady presence that said, I see you. You’re safe. Nick and Charlie
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so only Charlie could hear. “I love you.” Nick stepped closer, crowding Charlie’s space
Charlie’s voice was hollow. “So that’s it?” “Charlie, I think… I think I like you
“Yeah, Nick,” he whispered. “We’re more than okay.”
A week later, a letter appeared in Charlie’s locker. It was on torn-out notebook paper, covered in crossed-out words and ink smudges. It was so Nick .
Charlie laughed, a wet, broken sound. “You’re an idiot.”