This story contains mature themes including emotional trauma, mental health struggles, and strong language. Reader discretion is advised

CHAPTER 8 (Charlies POV)

The kettle clicks off.  

I pour hot water into the chipped mug Kara got me for my birthday last year — the one that says  

*“life sucks”* 

I guess it’s true now more than ever. The silence in the kitchen is loud. Kara left early for her first lecture. 

 I’m just... here. Alone. 

 Toast half-burnt, butter barely spread. Tea with too much milk. The kind of breakfast you make without really thinking. I sit at the table and stare out the window.  

The sky’s just... dull. Like my head. 

 I think about texting Kara. *Hope your first day goes okay.*  

My fingers hover over the screen, but I turn off my phone instead. She’s probably busy. Or with Alfie. Alfie. That name feels weird in my mouth, even if I’m only thinking it.The kind of guy who had everything just sort of... fall into place. Good for him, I guess.  

My tea’s cold. I don’t drink it. 

 I glance at my arm — the faint lines just under the skin. Not fresh. Not old. Just... reminders. I close my eyes for a second, and I’m not in the kitchen anymore. I’m 15. Kara’s crying because she tripped and scraped her knee on the pavement. Mum’s yelling at Dad in the background. I remember kneeling next to her, telling her it would be okay even though I didn’t believe it myself.  

Funny how some things stick with you like that. 

 My phone buzzes. A text from Gwen.  

GWEN: You eat yet or still doing that silent sad breakfast thing 

 I stare at the message for a second. I type. 

 ME: Toast. Burnt. Very gourmet. 

 GWEN: Charlie come on. You’ve got to stop being so depressed all the time. It’s exhausting. 

 My fingers freeze over the screen. I blink once, twice. I wasn’t expecting that.  

ME: Didn’t know burnt toast counted as a being depressed  

GWEN: It’s not just today. You never want to do anything. You barely leave the house unless Kara forces you. I’m not trying to be mean but this is getting old. 

 I read the words again and again. Each one feels heavier than the last. I start to type I’m trying, then delete it. Then I type. 

ME: Sorry 

 GWEN: I’m not asking for sorry. I’m asking for effort. From you. Toward us.  

Ouch! 

That one stings more than I expect. I try to swallow the lump in my throat and send. 

 ME: Okay. I’ll try.  

She doesn’t reply straight away. After a few minutes, my phone buzzes again.  

GWEN: I love you. 

 I put the phone down. I don’t touch the toast. 

I get up, dump the toast in the bin, pour my tea down the sink. I move slowly. Dragging my feet. Every sound feels too loud in this silence. The tap dripping. My breath. It’s all sharp in my ears, like the world’s trying to remind me I’m still here, even if I don’t feel like it.