Nick And — Charlie

For three weeks, it was a secret. A beautiful, terrifying secret. They passed notes disguised as homework. They held hands under the library table. Nick would whisper “my boyfriend” into Charlie’s ear in empty hallways, and Charlie’s entire body would turn to warm static.

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. Nick and Charlie

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. For three weeks, it was a secret

He thought of the nervous boy in the art block. The terrified boy at the gates. The letter. The thousand small, brave acts of love that had built this life, brick by brick. They held hands under the library table

“Your idiot,” Nick corrected, grinning through his own tears.

Nick saw Charlie. He didn’t hesitate. He walked forward, closed the distance, and cupped Charlie’s face in his hands.

The world stopped. Charlie’s brain, so used to disaster, offered only a single, useless syllable: “Oh.”