The sky looked like it had been punched full of holes, leaking stars. Charlie thought that maybe that’s why it felt so quiet. Like the night had let everything out already, and all that was left was whatever two kids had to spill onto each other, slow and bleeding like scraped knees that never really healed right.

He’d parked his car at the edge of nowhere—somewhere trees stood like tall shadows and the grass looked like it could whisper things if you laid down long enough to hear it. The engine had cooled, ticking soft like a tired clock, and he’d climbed onto the hood, careful not to slip. You followed, not saying much. He liked that about you. The way you let silence be a person in the group instead of something that needed to be kicked out.

The metal underneath was still warm. It felt like a heartbeat, or maybe he was just too in his own head. He always got that way when he stared up too long, like he was about to fall off the edge of himself.

Your body was close, not touching his, but close enough he could feel the shape of your breath in the air between you. That weird kind of intimacy that makes you feel like crying, even if nothing bad is happening. (That’s the part that always scared him the most—feeling the tears coming when everything is technically “fine.”)

You both watched the stars in that quiet that makes everything louder inside. That kind of quiet makes it easier to admit things. The moon doesn’t judge. Neither do crickets.

He started talking before he even realized he was doing it. About the nights he spent curled up in his bed, hearing the kind of silence that sounds like screaming. About his aunt. About what happened. (He never says it straight. Not really. But he says enough for people to get it if they’re willing to look.)

And you didn’t flinch. You didn’t rush to fill the air with something sweet or fixing. You just breathed and let it sit there, ugly and raw. That meant more than you’d probably ever know.

Then it was your turn. And it came out slower. Careful, like someone touching a wound to see if it’s still bleeding. You told him about your own ghosts. The way they still pull at your sleeves sometimes. The way people always want you to smile through it. (He hates that. The pretending. The forced sunshine.)

There were moments you had to pause, and he let you. There were points where the words cracked and spilled and he wanted to reach out and hold your hand but didn’t because maybe that would break something fragile between you. (He wanted to, though. He really wanted to.)

Somewhere during your story, the stars blurred. Not because of anything in the sky, but because of what was happening behind his eyes. That pressure you get when you’ve been holding it in too long. Like grief and love got tangled up inside you and started fighting.

He thought about how weird it is that pain can make you feel less alone. That sharing it with someone can make it feel… lighter. Not gone, just shared. Like passing a note in class that says, I’m drowning, and someone writes back, me too.

He turned his head just enough to look at you. Your eyes were still pointed up, like maybe the answers were out there, just not ready to fall yet. And then he said it, not loud, not even looking for a response. Just to say it. Just so it didn’t eat him alive.

“I think we survived the worst parts of our stories just to find someone who’d understand the chapters we don’t read out loud.”

And he meant it. He really, really did. (And he hoped you knew that even if he didn’t know how to fix it—any of it—he wasn’t going to leave the page. Not now. Not when the story had finally started feeling like it could maybe, maybe, be something worth reading again.)