Though things were going well between me and Charlie, I still walked around like I carried the weight of the world. It wasn't that I didn't notice the small bursts of happiness — the way his eyes lit up when he saw me, the warmth in his voice when we spoke — but they floated on top of something heavier, something that never really went away.
Some mornings, it felt like my feet were made of stone. Other times, it was my chest — tight and aching, like the air didn't want to come in. Even with Charlie in my life, the past clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake.
And then there was the other weight — the things I was scared of. What people might think if they found out what was really going on between Charlie and me. Even the thought of it made me flinch. And the worst part is that Charlie is starting to show his emotions out in public. He's really bad at keeping his feelings in check — he's what you can call a public display of affection kind of person. And you know people love gossiping about these kinds of things.
Then there's the way he tries to protect me from everyone, which, honestly, feels like too much sometimes. Overprotective, you know? Like he doesn't want me to do anything myself. Always wanting my attention, always holding my hand while we walk — giving the pokenosers plenty to whisper and smirk about. And sometimes I'm really worried, but I don't want to tell him because I don't want him to feel bad. You know… he's an angel trying to repair a broken glass like me.
At school, I moved through the hallways half-aware, smiling when I had to, nodding when people spoke. On the surface, I was fine. Inside, I was still counting the cracks in the walls, still waiting for something to break.
Charlie noticed before I even realized I was dragging my feet.
"You're quiet today," he said, falling into step beside me as we made our way to lunch.
"I'm always quiet," I replied, eyes fixed on the scuffed floor tiles.
"Yeah, but this is… different." He tilted his head, studying me like he was trying to read between the lines. "You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The one where you're here, but not really here."
I shrugged, not trusting myself to answer. If I opened my mouth, I might let too much spill out — the late nights replaying old memories, the sudden tightness in my chest when someone's laugh sounded too sharp, the way I still flinched when people got too close.
Charlie slowed his pace, his voice gentler now. "You know you don't have to pretend with me, right?"
That made me look at him. His eyes weren't just kind — they were steady, like he meant every word. And for a second, the weight on my shoulders shifted, just enough for me to breathe a little deeper.
But at lunch, the attention I dreaded found me anyway. We sat at a table near the window, and almost immediately, Charlie reached over and took my hand. My stomach knotted. The gesture was warm and comforting, but I could feel eyes turning our way. Conversations at nearby tables softened, like people were trying to listen without looking obvious.
"Charlie…" I whispered, giving his hand a small squeeze, hoping he'd get the hint.
"What?" He grinned. "We're not doing anything wrong."
I knew he meant it as reassurance, but it only made my pulse race faster. My mind played through all the possible whispers, the half-smiles from people who thought they knew the story.
When we got up to leave, he walked close — too close. His arm brushed mine the whole way down the hall, and when we reached the doors, he opened it for me like we were in some kind of romance movie. I could feel the stares, the smirks, the way someone near the lockers nudged their friend.
By the time the final bell rang, I was drained. I loved being around Charlie — more than I could say — but the constant eyes on us made me feel like I was balancing on a wire, waiting for the smallest shift to send me falling.
On the walk home, he was all smiles again, talking about a new book he'd started reading. I listened, nodding at the right moments, but my thoughts kept drifting. He deserved someone who could hold his hand without looking over their shoulder. Someone who wasn't afraid of shadows.
Still, when he reached for my hand halfway down the block, I let him take it. And even with the worry gnawing at me, a part of me hoped he'd never stop trying.
That night, I sat at my desk with the lamp casting a small circle of light over my notebook. My pen hovered over the page for what felt like forever. I wanted to write about him — about the way his laugh made my chest feel lighter, the way his touch could quiet my storms. But the words didn't come out right. They felt too big, too fragile.
Instead, I wrote one line: He makes me want to be brave.
I stared at it for a long time, wondering if I'd ever have the courage to let him read it.