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

CHAPTER 9 (Charlies POV)

Time passes instantly. It now 2pm 

Gwen Texts me. She want to meet up 

Before i know it were walking in the park. 

The walk feels heavier than usual. 

She’s quiet. Not the playful kind of quiet, but the kind that feels like she’s holding back a scream. 

I open my mouth a few times, try to say something, anything — but everything sounds wrong in my head. 

When we reach a bench, she turns to me. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. 

“Charlie,” she says flatly. “Can we talk?” 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

She sighs. “I’m tired of this. Of you always shutting down. I never know what you’re thinking anymore. You say you’re ‘just tired’ all the time — but I don’t think it’s just tired. I think it’s something deeper, and you won’t let me in.” 

I look down at my shoes. “You’re right.” 

She stares at me. I think she was expecting me to argue. Or talk back. But I can’t. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been... distant. I didn’t mean to make you feel like this.” 

Gwen’s eyes soften slightly, but the frustration’s still there. 

“I just want to feel like you want me. That we’re real. Because lately... it’s like you’re here, but you’re not here with me.” 

I take a shaky breath. “I do want you. I just—sometimes I get stuck in my own head. It’s not your fault. I promise. I’ll do better. I’ll try harder. I’ll make it up to you.” 

She blinks, her voice suddenly small. “You mean that?” 

“I do,” I say. “Come home with me. Please.” 

She hesitates for half a second, then nods. 

We don’t talk much on the way back. But her hand’s in mine. 

When we get inside, I flick on the living room light. Kara’s not home yet. The place is quiet. 

I pull Gwen close. She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine like she’s still not sure. 

“I love you,” I say. 

She kisses me. 

It starts soft — a slow kind of kiss, like we’re remembering what we used to be. But it builds fast. I hold her tighter. She runs her fingers through my hair. We stumble backwards, half-laughing, into my room. 

I forget the weight in my chest for a moment. Just a moment. 

I feel her hands under my shirt. My breath stutters, not because I don’t want her — I do — but because I am scared she’s going to feel the scars. I tense. 

She pauses. 

But doesn’t pull away. 

She kisses my neck instead, like she didn’t notice. Or like she’s pretending she didn’t. 

I close my eyes. 

This is what trying looks like.