Charlie

Rain pattered softly against the windowpane, a gentle but persistent rhythm that filled the quiet of my room. I sat on the edge of my bed, knees pulled up to my chest, staring out at the world beyond the streaked glass. Everything was gray—the sky, the streets, the faded siding of the house across from ours. Even the trees looked dull, their bare branches reaching out like skeletal hands.

Mom hadn't come home last night. Again. I told myself not to care, but the empty ache in my chest begged to differ. The house felt heavier when she wasn't here, like her absence added another layer to the suffocating weight that already filled every corner. But when she was here... Well, that was its own kind of hell.

I sighed, resting my forehead against the cool glass. Rain always made me think too much, like it had a way of drawing all the buried thoughts to the surface.

The dream had been different this time. Sharper. I could almost see his face—messy dark hair, piercing eyes that seemed to stare right into me. There was a laugh, warm and familiar, and then... nothing. I woke up gasping, my heart racing like I'd been running for my life.

"Get a grip," I muttered to myself, pulling away from the window. It was just a dream. That's all. But the ache it left behind didn't feel like nothing.

I turned to my desk, cluttered with half-finished sketches, crumpled paper, and books stacked in precarious towers. Nestled between them was my diary, its leather cover worn smooth from years of use. I grabbed it, clutching it tight as I settled onto my bed.

The pen felt heavy in my hand as I opened to a blank page. I hesitated, the words tangled in my mind, before finally letting the ink flow.

Diary Entry:

The rain feels different today. Like it's trying to say something, but I can't quite hear the words.

I had the dream again. It's always the same, but it's not. He's there—this boy I don't know but feel like I should. His laugh echoes in my head, and for a moment, I feel... whole. Like I've found something I didn't even realize I'd lost.

But then he's gone, and I'm left reaching for something that isn't there.

It's stupid, really. Just a dream. But why does it feel so real? Why does it feel like... like he's waiting for me? Or maybe I'm the one waiting for him.

I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

The pen hovered over the page, trembling in my hand. I stared at the words, my chest tight with emotions I couldn't name. Writing usually helped, but today it felt like I was pulling something out of myself I wasn't ready to face.

I slammed the diary shut, tossing it onto the desk. The soft thud echoed louder than it should have in the silence.

I didn't notice it at first—the faint flicker of light from the corner of my eye. When I turned, it was gone, leaving only the dim glow of the desk lamp. I frowned, shaking my head. Probably just my imagination.

A loud bang from the front door jolted me upright. Mom.

Her footsteps were uneven, dragging against the old wood floors as she made her way to the kitchen. I stayed where I was, the familiar knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. But then I heard the crash—glass shattering, followed by a string of curses.

I shot up, heart pounding, and rushed into the kitchen.

Mom was slumped against the counter, her hand clutching a broken bottle of vodka. Shards of glass littered the floor around her feet. She looked up at me, her eyes bloodshot and unfocused.

"Charlie," she slurred, a weak smile tugging at her lips. "Didn't hear you come in."

"You need to sit down," I said, my voice tight. I stepped carefully over the glass, grabbing her arm to steady her.

She pulled away, stumbling back. "I'm fine," she snapped, but the words were hollow, just like her eyes.

"Mom, please," I tried again, softer this time.

For a moment, her face crumpled, and I thought maybe—just maybe—she'd let me help her. But then she straightened, brushing past me with a dismissive wave. "Don't fuss over me. I'm not a child."

I watched her retreat down the hall, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. The door to her room slammed shut, and the house fell silent again.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the mess she'd left behind. The broken glass, the spilled vodka soaking into the cracked linoleum.

Eventually, I grabbed a broom and started cleaning up.

Back in my room, I sat on the bed, staring at my diary. The leather cover felt rough under my fingertips, grounding me in a way I desperately needed. I thought about opening it again, writing something else—anything to make sense of the chaos swirling in my mind—but the weight of everything pressed down too hard.

Instead, I leaned back against the headboard, letting the rain lull me into a daze. Its rhythm was steady, almost hypnotic, like a heartbeat. I closed my eyes, but I didn't fall asleep. The boy from my dreams lingered in the back of my mind, his laugh soft and distant, like the memory of a song I couldn't quite remember.

What was it about him? Why did he feel so familiar, like a piece of my past I'd somehow forgotten? It wasn't just his face—it was the feeling. That ache in my chest, sharp and unrelenting, like I was missing something vital.

I glanced at the desk, where my diary sat next to a stack of books and loose sketches. A small glint of light caught my eye, faint and fleeting, like a spark. I blinked, and it was gone, leaving only the dim glow of the desk lamp.

My pulse quickened, the air in the room suddenly feeling heavier. I sat up, my gaze locked on the diary as if it might move on its own. The rational part of me said it was nothing—just a trick of the light, my imagination playing games. But deep down, something stirred.

I thought about the dream again. The boy. The way he reached for me, his eyes full of something I couldn't name. It was almost like he knew me, like he was waiting for me.

And then there was the way I woke up—gasping, clutching at the sheets like they might anchor me to reality. Every time, it felt like I'd lost something all over again.

The rain outside grew heavier, the sound filling the room until it drowned out everything else. I wrapped my arms around my knees, pulling them close to my chest. The ache inside me deepened, spreading through my ribs like a hollow, endless void.

"Who are you?" I whispered into the quiet. The words felt strange, foreign, like I wasn't even sure who I was asking.

My chest tightened, and for a moment, I thought I might cry. But the tears didn't come. They never did. I swallowed hard, forcing the lump in my throat down as I stared out the window.

Somewhere out there, I felt like he was waiting for me. And maybe, just maybe, I was waiting for him too.

The thought lingered, a faint glimmer of hope in the darkness.

I didn't know what it meant or if it meant anything at all. But as the rain poured down outside, I clung to it. Because in a world that felt so empty, the idea of someone—anyone—waiting for me was enough to keep me going.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

And for now, that would have to be enough.