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. 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. Nick and Charlie
Charlie closed his eyes. He knew that fear. He’d lived it. “They won’t. The real ones won’t.” Yours (if you’ll still have me), Nick Charlie
Nick saw Charlie. He didn’t hesitate. He walked forward, closed the distance, and cupped Charlie’s face in his hands. The third, a small, fragile smile cracked the numbness