James

The sound of my skateboard is everything. It's the only thing that doesn't feel heavy, doesn't expect anything from me. The asphalt's cracked, but the wheels keep rolling, like they don't care. The wind bites at my face, slicing through my hair, and for a second, I can almost forget about the rest of the world. Like I'm the only one left.

I've been awake for hours. I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's the quiet. Or maybe it's the fact that, for once, I can be the only thing in the world. My mom's deaf, always has been. So it's just me and her in this strange silence that sometimes feels louder than any noise. My dad? He's here, but not really. Always too busy with some bullshit about "legacy" to actually notice I'm here. Too caught up in the business to even remember what a real conversation is.

I skate again, pushing off harder, feeling the hum of the board beneath me. My mullet—yeah, I know, ridiculous—but it suits the vibe, right? The 80s style, it's like my own personal rebellion. It keeps me from getting bored.

The wind, though—now that's something. The way it messes up my hair, forces me to keep moving. Like everything's supposed to be like this. Fast, messy, loud. I like it that way.

I glance up, the sun hitting the broken windows of the diner. Empty, like always. But it's familiar. It's not much, but it's mine. Sometimes, I sit in there and sketch—my jewelry designs, twisted metal. They're mine, my rebellion in a world that expects something different. Everyone asks if I'll sell, but I don't. Not yet. They don't get it. The designs are too personal.

Sometimes I wonder, though, if I make them to hold onto something. Something I haven't figured out yet. Something I'm supposed to find. But what if it's just me, drifting between the pieces I can't finish?

I stop, roll my board to a standstill. Reach into my pack for a cigarette. I don't smoke often, but when the silence is too much, I need something to fill it. Light it, drag deep. Smoke fills my lungs and spills out, just like I want it to.

And that's when I see him.

Charlie.

Sitting by the park, sketching in that stupid notebook of his. There's something about him. It's not just the way he looks—it's the way he feels. Sadness. Strength. He's lost in his own world, but there's something else too. Like he doesn't belong here.

I can't look away. I don't know why. His energy pulls at me, like it's drawing me in, and I can't stop it.

I watch him for a minute—maybe longer. Doesn't matter.

If I was anyone else, I'd just walk away. Let it go. But I can't. There's something about him that keeps me rooted to the spot.

I stand, feet moving before my brain catches up. Halfway across the lot, and now I'm thinking, What the hell am I doing? But it doesn't stop me. Something about him pulls harder, like a magnet. And I'm already too far gone.

I stop at the edge of the bench, hovering like an idiot. He doesn't notice me. Still lost in that damn sketchbook of his. He's focused, like everything else is just noise to him. And I—god, I don't know—can't help but think he looks perfect like that. Beautiful. Not in the way I expected, though. It's not his looks, it's the way he carries himself. How he's not like anyone else.

I stand there longer than I should. My legs start to itch, but I'm frozen. Finally, I speak.

"Hey." My voice comes out too loud, like I'm breaking the silence. "What are you drawing?"

His head jerks up, eyes green like fresh grass. It catches me off guard. I don't know why, but it does. His gaze is startled, not scared—just curious. He looks at me like he's unsure if he should talk. Hell, maybe he's right. I'm not the guy who just goes up and talks to someone. I'm the guy who hides in plain sight. My leather jacket, my board, none of that says "approachable." But whatever. Who even knows what "approachable" means?

"Just... some stuff." His voice is quiet, unsure, like I'm making him uncomfortable. He pulls the notebook closer to his chest, like he's trying to protect it.

I smile before I even think about it. What's so special about that stupid notebook? Who knows. But I can't help myself. "Can I see?"

Charlie hesitates. He stares at me, like I'm some riddle he can't figure out. I'm not exactly used to being under someone's microscope. But something about him... something makes me want to show him who I am.

Finally, he opens the notebook. Just enough. I can see a half-finished sketch of a bird, mid-flight. And damn, there's something in it. It's not just a bird. It's important. It's raw, messy, but there's something beautiful about it.

"That's really good," I say, even though I don't know the first thing about art. But I can feel it. I can feel the meaning in it.

"Thanks." He looks away quickly, almost like he's embarrassed. I see it. The quiet sadness in his eyes, but also this stubborn streak underneath it. Like he's holding on to something. Resilient.

I want to know more. About the bird, about him. But for now, I just sit there. We don't talk. The world spins around us, but we're not really listening to it. Just two people—me and Charlie—locked in a silence that feels bigger than either of us.