Charlie

Diary Entry, October 3rd, 1987

It's strange how loneliness feels heavier at night. It wraps around me like an old coat, familiar but fraying at the edges. I used to think the stars were tiny holes poked in the fabric of the sky, little glimpses into somewhere better. Now I wonder if they're just another way the universe mocks us—distant, untouchable, beautiful.

Mum didn't come home tonight. Again. I stopped waiting up for her years ago, but the quiet still gets to me. It creeps in, filling the cracks I try so hard to seal. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever feel whole.

Anyway, enough wallowing. I have to get up early tomorrow. There's an art show at the library, and maybe—just maybe—someone will notice my work. Probably not. But hope is a stubborn thing, isn't it?

Until tomorrow,
Charlie

I closed the diary, letting my hand linger on the cover. It still smelled faintly of ink, a comforting scent I associated with late nights and whispered confessions. I slid it under my mattress—my usual hiding spot—and leaned back in my chair, staring at the pale glow of the streetlight outside my window.

The quiet of the house pressed down on me. Mum wasn't home again, which wasn't surprising, but it didn't make the silence any less suffocating. I sighed, pushed my glasses up my nose, and turned off the lamp.

My bed creaked as I crawled under the blanket, the springs protesting even my slight weight. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, tracing cracks that looked like rivers on a map. Sleep didn't come easily, but eventually, I drifted off, my dreams restless and full of shadows.

The morning came too soon, gray and damp like the air had forgotten how to be anything else. I got ready quickly, pulling on a long black skirt and my favorite band tee. My boots were scuffed, but they were comfortable, and that was what mattered.

Mum was sprawled on the couch when I walked into the living room, the remnants of last night's binge scattered around her. I didn't bother waking her. Instead, I grabbed my portfolio from the corner and slipped out the door.

The library was already buzzing with quiet activity when I arrived. I set up my table near the back, arranging my sketches carefully. Each one felt like a piece of me laid bare—too raw, too personal—but I pushed that thought aside.

People came and went. Some stopped to look, their expressions polite but unreadable. Others barely glanced at my work. I smiled anyway, though my face ached from the effort.

By noon, my stomach growled loud enough to draw a few amused glances. I retreated outside, finding a spot under a tree to eat my vending machine sandwich. It tasted like cardboard, but at least it was something.

I pulled out my sketchbook, letting the world around me fade. My pencil moved without much thought, sketching the outline of a face—sharp cheekbones, dark hair, and eyes that seemed to hold storms. I frowned, unsure where the image had come from, but I didn't stop.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. By the time I got home, the sun was setting, casting everything in muted gold. Mum was awake now, banging around in the kitchen like she was trying to make up for lost time.

"Where were you?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"Library," I said, keeping it short.

"Waste of time," she muttered, slamming a cupboard.

I didn't bother arguing. Instead, I went to my room, shutting the door firmly behind me.

That night, as I sat on my bed with my sketchbook open, I found myself staring at the boy I'd drawn earlier. His face was unfinished, just a ghostly outline, but there was something familiar about him.

Diary Entry, October 4th, 1987

The art show was... fine. That's what I'm supposed to say, right? The truth is, I felt invisible, like my work didn't matter. Maybe I don't matter.

I drew someone today. I don't know who he is, but he feels familiar. Grey eyes, dark hair, a scar on his eyebrow. He looks like someone who knows what it's like to feel broken.

Maybe he's just a figment of my imagination. Or maybe he's real, out there somewhere.

Thursday came with a crispness in the air that hinted at the first frost. I ended up at the park after school, more out of habit than anything else. The old bench under the oak tree had become my favorite spot, the wood worn smooth by decades of restless sitters like me.

I was mid-sketch when the sharp clatter of wheels on concrete pulled my attention.

A group of skaters tore through the park, their laughter sharp and wild. One of them stood out—not because he was the loudest, but because he wasn't.

Black hair. Grey eyes. A scar cutting through his right eyebrow.

My heart stuttered.

It was him.

For a second, I thought I was imagining things. But then his gaze flicked toward me, and the world narrowed to the space between us.

Our eyes met.

It was brief, a flicker of connection that vanished as quickly as it came. He turned back to his friends, skating away without a second glance, while I sat there, my breath caught in my throat.

I didn't realize I'd pressed the pencil so hard that the tip had snapped until it rolled off the page.

"Who are you?" I whispered, though the words barely reached the air before dissolving.