I told my mum. I told my brother. I told Imogen. I’m going to walk into school tomorrow, and I’m going to find you, and I’m going to kiss you in the middle of the courtyard. Not because I want to prove something to them. But because I need you to know that you are not a secret. You are not a phase. You are the only thing that makes sense.
The confession happened in the art block, under the cold fluorescent lights that made everything look like a crime scene. Nick had just tackled a Year 13 who’d called Charlie a slur. His knuckles were red, his chest was heaving, and his eyes were a storm of fury and fear. Nick and Charlie
It was about Nick learning the contours of Charlie’s anxiety—the way he’d tap his fingers when a crowd got too loud, the way his breathing would shallow before a spiral. And Nick learning to be a harbour: a warm, steady presence that said, I see you. You’re safe. I told my mum