Charlie
For a second, all I can do is stare at the closed door, a war going on inside of me. Open it. Let him in. Take care of him. Keep it shut. Stop trying to fix broken men who can’t be fixed.
If asking him to leave last night has him drunk at my door today, then obviously he’s not the sort of broken love can heal.
Love. Shit. I’m in love with him.
I turn my back to the door and slide down the wood, my heart in my throat. Pressing my ear against the door, I listen for any sound on the other side.
His breathing is ragged. I can hear it—uneven, heavy, like he’s fighting to stay upright. For a moment, I think he might knock again. Part of me hopes he does. The rest of me is terrified he will.
Then I hear him turn. Footsteps retreating down the hall, unsteady and slow, fading until there’s nothing left but the distant hum of the city outside.
The silence that follows feels heavier than the panic did.
Sofia winds between my legs, purring like she’s trying to stitch me back together.
I pull her into my lap and bury my face in her fur, eyes burning again.
A phantom ache still circles my wrists where he held them.
My neck has little bruises lining it from his bites.
And my body is still full of the fear and shame that came in when the flashback hit me.
Maybe I’m the one that needs to heal before I let someone fully in. I thought I was almost there, minus the sleepless nights and night terrors. But I was obviously lying to myself.
Hunter needs to heal, too. We both do. And trying to do it tangled up in each other like this…it’s only going to make everything worse.
I sit there on the floor for a long time, stroking Sofia’s fur while the tears slow to quiet, hiccuping breaths. Tomorrow, I’ll tell him. I’ll say we need space. That we both need to get our shit together before we drag each other down any further.
Even if it feels like ripping out my own heart to do it.
Because right now, with the ghost of his hands still on my skin and the memory of how safe I felt before it all went wrong, I know I’m already too far gone.
I just hope he understands.
I hope he doesn’t hate me for it.
I hope…I hope he heals, too.
I don’t know how long I stay on the floor. Long enough for Sofia to get bored and curl up in my lap, purring like a broken motor. Long enough for the tears to dry into tight, stinging tracks on my cheeks.
Eventually, the exhaustion wins.
I drag myself up, legs shaky, and stumble to bed. I don’t bother changing. I just pull the covers over my head, curl around Sofia, and let the quiet darkness take me.
Sleep is restless, full of half-formed dreams where hands hold me down and low voices chant prayers I can’t escape. But when I wake, the morning light is soft and steady through the windows.
A new day.
I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything that’s happened still sitting on my chest. My body aches in places that have nothing to do with the physical. My heart feels raw.
I force myself out of bed anyway.
Shower. Clothes. Eyeliner to hide the redness in my eyes. I move through the motions, the same as always. When I step outside, the city is loud and alive, the same as always.
Heading for the store for my mid-morning shift, my legs eat up the distance.
Mrs. Lovelady welcomes me like an old grandmother and not like the boss she is. She’s behind the counter sorting a new shipment of brushes, her silver hair pinned up neatly, a soft floral cardigan draped over her shoulders.
“Morning, sweetheart,” she says, her voice warm as always. “You’re a little early today. Couldn’t sleep?”
I manage a small smile as I hang up my bag. “Something like that. The city was loud last night.”
She clicks her tongue, eyes crinkling with concern. “You look like you could use a good cup of tea. I just put the kettle on in the back. Go on, I’ll finish this.”
I hesitate, but she waves me off with a gentle hand.
“Don’t argue with an old woman, Charlie. Tea first. Work can wait five minutes.”
I nod and head to the small back room. The familiar scent of chamomile fills the air as I pour myself a mug. Mrs. Lovelady follows a moment later, carrying a tin of shortbread cookies she keeps just for us.
“Here,” she says, setting two cookies on a napkin beside my mug. “Eat. You’re too thin these days. All skin and bones.”
I take a bite, the buttery sweetness melting on my tongue. “Thank you. You always take care of me.”
She smiles, leaning against the counter with her own mug.
“Someone has to. You’re a good boy, Charlie.
You work hard, you’re kind to the customers, and you never complain, even when that one lady comes in complaining about the same set of watercolors every week.
” She chuckles softly. “I don’t know how you stay so patient with her. ”
I shrug, a real smile tugging at my lips for the first time today. “She’s lonely. Reminds me of my grandma a little. I don’t mind.”
Mrs. Lovelady’s eyes soften. “That’s why you’re good people. You see the lonely ones. Don’t ever lose that.” She reaches over and gently squeezes my shoulder. “And if you ever need a day off or just someone to listen… my door’s always open. No questions asked.”
I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “I know. Thank you.”
She gives my shoulder one more pat, then heads back to the front with a wink. “Now finish that tea before it gets cold. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”
I sit there a moment longer, the warmth of the mug seeping into my hands, her kindness wrapping around the raw edges inside me like a soft blanket. It doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the weight feel just a tiny bit lighter. I wash the mug, straighten my hoodie, and head back out to the floor.
The morning shift is steady. A steady stream of art students, hobbyists, and the occasional tourist wanders in.
I help a young woman find the perfect set of acrylics for her first painting class, smiling through the knot in my chest when she gushes about how excited she is to start creating.
I restock the watercolor section, chat with Mr. Ramirez about his latest landscape, and even manage to laugh when a little kid accidentally knocks over a display of colored pencils and looks up at me with wide, guilty eyes.
“Accidents happen,” I tell him, crouching down to help pick them up. “Want to pick your favorite color as a reward for helping clean up?”
His face lights up. He chooses a bright turquoise, and I slip it into his mom’s bag when she’s not looking.
Overall, it’s a good shift. By the time the afternoon rush starts to slow, I’m tired in a bone deep way that has nothing to do with the physical work and everything to do with the text I’ve avoided sending all day.
Hunter hasn’t texted today. Maybe he was so drunk last night he doesn’t remember pounding on my door at 3 a.m..
When my shift finally ends, I say goodbye to Mrs. Lovelady with a hug that lingers a little longer than usual. She squeezes me tight and whispers, “You take care of that big heart of yours, sweetheart.”
I nod, throat tight, and step out into the late afternoon sun.
Once outside, I pull out my phone and open the text thread with Hunter. Without over-thinking it, I send a quick text.
Me: If you’re sober, we should talk.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Hunter: I’m sober. Waiting on your steps.
My stomach drops. I can’t have this conversation at my apartment. I’m not sure I’m strong enough.
I type back quickly, fingers shaking just a little.
Me: Meet me at the park near the fountain instead? Five minutes?
Hunter: On my way.
I slip the phone into my pocket and start walking, legs moving on autopilot while my mind races. The city noise wraps around me, but it all feels far away.
I’m in love with him. And I’m going to tell him we can’t be in a relationship. The tears want to start falling already, and I blink the sting away. Shit. Why is the right thing so hard?
I reach the park and spot him immediately; he’s sitting on my favorite bench by the fountain. The late afternoon light catches on his stubble and the tired lines around his eyes. He looks rough. But sober. When he sees me, he stands up slowly, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
My heart clenches.
I walk over, stopping a few feet away, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey.” His voice is rough, careful. “You wanted to talk?”
I nod, glancing at the fountain for a second before meeting his eyes. Rip the bandaid off.
“Yeah. I…I need to say some things. And I think that it’s better if we do it here. In the open. Where I feel safe.”
I regret the choice of words immediately, but push forward.
He flinches, but nods. “Okay. Yeah. Whatever you need.”
I take a shaky breath, the words I’ve been turning over all day finally rising to the surface.
“I’m in love with you, Hunter. I think I started falling for you that day you helped me with my panic attack. And it’s been amazing the last few weeks. I thought…” I clear my throat of the growing emotion and look away again. “I thought I was ready for a forever relationship.”
“Don’t say you're not.”
I roll my lips together, wanting to keep the next words inside. “We aren’t.” I shift my gaze back to his, where he’s watching me with all the hurt and pain I’m feeling. “Hunter, I can’t do this. Love isn’t enough to heal either of us.”
“We don’t need to have sex, Charlie. I’m okay with everything else we’ve been doing.”
“It’s not about the sex. I’m sorry I panicked the other night.
I did think I was ready. I wanted you so badly.
But my body remembered things my mind wasn’t prepared for.
And I’m sorry I made you leave. But I also need you to know that I can’t do that again.
Not like that. Not until I’m stronger. And maybe not until you are, too. ”
I swallow hard, eyes stinging.
The fountain splashes softly behind us, indifferent to the way my world feels like it’s cracking open.
Hunter just stands there, hands still in his pockets, looking at me like I’m breaking his heart and he’s letting me.
I hate this.
I hate every word I just said.
But I know they’re true. We’re both too broken right now. Pushing forward is only going to hurt us more.
“I still want you in my life,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Just…not like this. Not until we both get help. Real help.”
The late afternoon light catches the tired lines on his face. He looks like he hasn’t slept either. I wait for him to say something—anything—while my heart feels like it’s ripping itself in half.
Because even though this is the right thing…
It still feels like goodbye.