Hunter
The physical therapist is a sadistic little shit who smiles too much while he makes me twist and stretch like my shoulder isn’t still raw meat under the bandages.
Second-degree burns don’t heal pretty, and every time I reach for the resistance band, my skin screams like it’s happening all over again—the fire, the smoke, the way Robby’s name got ripped out of my throat that night.
I grit my teeth, sweat dripping down my spine, and count the seconds until the hour’s up.
When I’m finally free of the clinic, it’s a little after one, the city bright and loud and indifferent. I should be heading west, back toward my shitty studio and the half-empty bottle I swore I wouldn’t touch today. Instead, my feet turn east the second I spot him.
Charlie.
He’s coming out of the Subway on the corner, paper bag in one hand, the other shoving golden curls out of his eyes.
A pair of ripped black jeans and the same cropped hoodie from the other night, his chipped nail polish catching the afternoon light.
He looks… lighter today. He bites into the sandwich right there on the sidewalk, mayo on his thumb, and laughs at something on his phone as though the whole world is in on the joke.
I watch as he licks the mayo from his fingers and starts walking toward the park.
I tell myself it’s a coincidence that I am craving a walk in the park now, too. I cross the street anyway, going the opposite direction than I should.
His long strides are loose and easy, and his earbuds are in, his head bobbing just a little to whatever song’s playing.
I fall in half a block behind, close enough to watch but far enough that I can pretend I’m not watching.
The way he moves—shoulders loose, hips rolling a little to his song—hits me low in the gut.
He stops at a crosswalk and actually says thank you to the old lady who lets him go first. Who the fuck does that in this city? He lives like there is no trauma clinging to him.
I don’t get it. I never will. My own ghosts are loud as hell most days. But the last few days? Robby hasn’t taken up all the space in my head. Not even close. I’m not even sure if that’s a good or bad thing. But every time the memories start clawing up, Charlie’s there instead.
It’s fucked up. I know it’s fucked up.
I traded one addiction for another. Alcohol used to shut the ghosts up for a few hours.
Now it’s this—learning everything I can about him.
The exact shade his eyes turn in the sunlight.
How he smiles at strangers as if they might not hurt him.
The way he laughs and how his Adam’s apple bobs with the sound.
I know it’s wrong. I know swapping booze for stalking a soft, broken kid from group is just trading one poison for another.
Robby wouldn’t like it. Not that the bastard gets a say, since he died on me. But none of it stops me. The ghosts are quieter when I’m watching him. Robby’s voice fades. The burn stops hurting so much.
So I keep walking the wrong way, hands in my pockets, eyes on the back of his neck where the curls brush skin that still looks untouched for everything he’s survived.
He finishes the sandwich, balls up the wrapper, and nails the trash can from ten feet away without even looking.
He does a little victory shimmy and then a half-spin on the sidewalk like the song in his ears just hit the good part, and for a second, he looks so goddamn alive it hurts to breathe.
I slow down when he enters the park, letting the distance stretch a little. My shoulder and arm are throbbing from PT, but I don’t care. I’ll ice it later. Right now, I just want to watch him.
He sits on a bench by the fountain. The water sparkles behind him in the afternoon light.
He pulls out a worn sketchbook, flips it open, and disappears.
Just like that. The rest of the world fades for him.
His teeth sink into his lower lip in concentration, curls falling into his eyes as he starts scratching lines across the page with quick, sure strokes.
A little old man shuffles over and sits on the far end of the bench without Charlie even looking up.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense, doesn’t shrink into himself the way I would.
He just keeps drawing, completely at ease in his own skin.
It’s fascinating. Terrifying, almost.
I lean against the lamppost across the path, slightly behind him so I can see the angle of his shoulders, the way his knee bounces lightly to whatever beat is still playing in his earbuds.
From here, I can make out the faint smudge of charcoal already on his fingers.
The cropped hoodie has ridden up again, showing that pale strip of lower back I can’t stop thinking about.
He looks small on that bench, swallowed by the oversized sweater, but there’s nothing fragile in the way he draws. He’s pouring everything into it.
I watch the way his tongue pokes at the corner of his mouth when he studies his drawing, the little furrow between his brows when something isn’t quite right on the page.
Every few minutes he tilts his head, studying his own work like he’s arguing with it.
Then he smiles—small, private, victorious—and keeps going.
The old man eventually shuffles away, but Charlie doesn’t even notice.
He’s somewhere else entirely, and I’m jealous of whatever world he gets to escape into.
After about a half hour, the burn on my shoulder starts screaming loud enough that I can’t ignore it anymore.
I peel myself off the lamppost, jaw tight.
If he looks around right now and spots me, there’s nothing I could say that would make this look normal.
“Hey, I just happened to be standing here watching you draw for thirty minutes” sounds like the exact kind of thing that gets you labeled a creep.
What I’m doing isn’t creepy, though. Is it?
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and start walking away, forcing myself not to look back. My boots scrape against the path, each step pulling at the healing skin on my shoulder. The pain is good. It keeps me grounded. Keeps me from turning around and watching him for another hour.
But even as I head home, his image stays burned behind my eyes. Golden curls in the sun. That strip of pale skin. The quiet intensity in his face when he draws like the paper might save him.
And maybe that’s the secret…having a passion, something to focus on. Maybe that’s what Charlie is becoming for me.
I push through the door at 5:35, way too early for only my third time showing up to this circle of broken people.
The New Light community room feels too big and too quiet without the usual crowd.
Warm light from the cheap floor lamps fights with the gray daylight slanting through the big warehouse windows, making the ugly tile floor look even more worn out and the drop ceiling saggier than usual.
Tim Peterson glances up from unfolding a metal chair, that same gentle, too-smooth smile sliding across his face like he’s genuinely happy to see me.
“Hunter,” he says, warm as ever, like we’re old friends instead of me being the new guy who’s been an asshole the only two times I’ve been here before. “Early bird tonight. Welcome.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Couldn’t sit at home staring at the walls anymore. Figured I’d help set up if you need it.”
Tim’s eyebrows lift, pleasantly surprised. He gestures toward the stack of mismatched chairs by the windows. “That’d be great, actually.”
I cross the room, boots quiet on the tile, and start grabbing chairs.
Metal scrapes against metal as I drag them into the circle.
Every movement tugs at the healing skin, a sharp reminder that I’m still paying for the night everything went to shit with Robby.
I ignore it. I’m here to try tonight. Maybe. At least for the next hour.
We work in near silence, the only sounds the creak of folding chairs and the faint rattle of the old radiator in the corner.
Tim keeps stealing these little glances at me, that calm, measured look that gives me cult-leader vibes.
Too gentle. Too steady. As though he’s already decided how broken I am and has the perfect thing to say ready to patch me up.
It makes my skin crawl, but I keep moving chairs anyway.
After a few minutes, he sets the last one down and brushes his hands together. “Most people drag their feet until the very last second, especially on their third visit. You showing up early… feels like something’s shifting for you.”
I drop into one of the chairs—the one that gives me a clear line of sight to the duct-taped seat directly across the circle—and stretch my legs out.
I swallow hard and keep my voice flat. “Yeah. Figured I’d give the whole ‘talk about your shit’ thing a real shot tonight. See if it sticks.”
Tim nods slowly, that gentle smile never wavering. “That’s all any of us can do. One honest hour at a time.”
My eyes drift back to the empty chair across from me.
The duct-taped one. Charlie’s chair. I can already picture him sliding into it soon—ripped jeans showing fishnet at the knees, smudged eyeliner, a baggy sweater swallowing his frame, looking way too soft for everything he’s been through.
The thought settles low and warm in my gut, the same way it did yesterday when I watched him disappear into his sketchbook like the ghosts couldn’t find him there.
I know exactly why I showed up early on only my third time here.
It wasn’t Tim’s calm cult energy or some sudden burst of faith in group therapy.
It was the chair across the circle.
And the soft, broken kid who fills it.
I lean back, arms crossed tight over my chest, burns stinging under my shirt, and wait for the rest of them to trickle in. Robby’s voice is already a little quieter.