I’m an idiot. No, I’m worse. I’m a coward. The day I walked away, I didn’t go home. I walked to the beach. I sat on the cold sand and I thought about every second I’ve known you.
“Your idiot,” Nick corrected, grinning through his own tears.
“Why did you do that?” Charlie whispered, backing against a filing cabinet. “You’ll get in trouble. You’ll—you’re Nick Nelson. You don’t have to fight for me.” Nick and Charlie
When they broke apart, Nick rested his forehead against Charlie’s. The world rushed back in—whispers, a wolf whistle, the bell ringing.
Nick saw Charlie. He didn’t hesitate. He walked forward, closed the distance, and cupped Charlie’s face in his hands. I’m an idiot
Their friendship built itself out of small, tectonic shifts. Rugby balls thrown too softly in PE so Charlie could actually catch them. Shared earbuds on the bus home, Nick’s playlists a chaotic storm of indie rock and 80s power ballads. Texts that started with “Did you do the maths homework?” and ended with “Goodnight, Char xx” at 1:47 AM.
The days that followed were grey and tasteless. Charlie went through the motions—classes, dinner, sleep—while a numbness settled over him. Nick looked at him in the corridors with a desperate, apologetic hunger, but Charlie looked away. He’d been rejected before, but never by the person who had promised, with their lips and their hands and their 1:47 AM texts, that he was worthy. The day I walked away, I didn’t go home
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 .