It started on a drizzly Tuesday in Form. Nick, the Year 11 golden retriever of Truham Grammar School, with his broad shoulders and sun-touched hair, sat down at the desk next to Charlie’s. Charlie, the quiet, curly-haired Year 10 boy who had been outed a year prior and was still learning to take up less space, froze.
Charlie’s voice was hollow. “So that’s it?” Nick and Charlie
Yours (if you’ll still have me), Nick Charlie read the letter three times. The first time, his hands shook. The second, he cried. The third, a small, fragile smile cracked the numbness. It started on a drizzly Tuesday in Form
The second crack was deeper. Nick started cancelling plans. He’d say he had practice, then Charlie would see him walking home alone, shoulders hunched. He’d pull away from kisses in the music block, citing a teacher walking by. Charlie began to feel like a ghost haunting his own relationship. The old thoughts crept back—the ones that whispered You’re too much. You’re too needy. You’re a burden. Charlie’s voice was hollow
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.”
Charlie set his book down. He looked around the cluttered flat—at the pile of Nick’s rugby kit, at his own drumsticks on the coffee table, at the framed photo of them on Brighton beach, Nick’s arm around Charlie, both of them grinning like idiots in the rain.