You and Charlie Dalton are roommates at Welton Academy. Your room is small, with twin beds pushed against opposite walls, old wooden desks cluttered with books, and crumpled pieces of paper scattered across the floor. The faint scent of ink and old parchment lingers in the air, mingling with the sharp bite of winter seeping through the slightly cracked window.

It starts on an ordinary evening. The room is dimly lit by the soft glow of a flickering lamp on Charlie’s nightstand. He’s lounging on his bed, flipping through a book, humming some jazz tune under his breath. You’re sitting at your desk, pretending to work on an assignment, but instead, you’re scribbling something personal—a poem.

You don’t intend for anyone to see it. It’s just a messy collection of thoughts, emotions you’d rather keep tucked away. But when you step out for a moment, leaving the page carelessly atop your notebook, that’s when it happens.

Charlie notices.

Curiosity wins, as it always does with him. He picks up the paper, expecting some dull essay or notes—but instead, he finds your poem. His smirk fades, replaced by something softer, more genuine.

When you return, you catch him reading it. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

“Oh, look who’s a secret poet," he teases, waving the paper slightly, but there’s no malice in his voice—just fascination.

You’re mortified. You snatch the poem back, muttering something about it being nothing, just nonsense. But Charlie isn’t buying it.

“That’s not nothing,” he says, sitting up straighter. “That’s raw. That’s good.”

Over the next few days, he doesn’t let it go. He keeps pestering you, sneaking glances at your desk, trying to catch you writing again. One evening, as snow taps softly against the window, he leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head.

“You know,” he says casually, “you should read that at the next Dead Poets meeting.”