James

The market smells like leather and metal. Always does. There's this guy yelling about batteries in the corner, and someone's playing a scratched-up record a few stalls over. It's chaos, but it's mine.

I'm supposed to be working—selling stuff I've poured hours into. Rings, necklaces, bracelets. But I'm distracted. Not by the lady haggling over a copper cuff or the kid touching everything with sticky fingers. No, it's that guy.

Charlie.

Something about him stuck, like a splinter, I can't pull out. His sketchbook, the way he sat like the world didn't deserve to look over his shoulder. I don't know.

The woman with the copper cuff walks away, grumbling. My hands move to sketch—automatic, muscle memory—but the designs are crap. Doodles. Birds. Wings. I'm drawing his damn bird.

Then I hear footsteps, soft but deliberate. I don't even have to look up to know it's him.

Charlie.

He hovers like he's not sure he's supposed to be here. Picks up the sparrow pendant, turning it over in his fingers. I can tell he's about to bolt.

"You're stalking me," I say, grinning. Gotta keep it light.

He almost smiles, but it doesn't stick. "I didn't know this was your booth," he mutters.

"Sure you didn't."

He fiddles with the pendant, his brow furrowed. Like it's not just jewelry, like it means something. That catches me off guard.

"Take it," I hear myself say.

His head snaps up. "What? No. I can't—"

"You like it, don't you?"

"That's not the point."

He's reaching for his pocket, probably to pull out whatever crumpled bills he's got. I don't let him.

"Call it a trade," I say. "For letting me ruin your sketching this morning."

He stares at me, his fingers curling around the pendant. "Thanks," he says, barely audible.

He's gone before I can figure out what just happened.

Charlie

The pendant feels heavier than it should.

I run my thumb over the edge as I walk, the tiny sparrow catching the afternoon light. It's beautiful, but it makes my stomach twist. Things like this—kindness, generosity—they don't come without strings. I don't trust it.

Still, I can't bring myself to hate it.

Back at the diner, I slip into my usual corner booth. The waitress doesn't even ask; the coffee just appears. Black, no sugar. I pull out my sketchbook, telling myself I'll finish the bird.

But my hand has other ideas.

Instead of feathers, it sketches a jawline. Shadows. A crooked grin.

I snap the book shut and shove it into my bag. My face feels hot, and I'm glad no one's around to see it.

The pendant clinks softly against my keys, and I pick it up again, holding it between my fingers.

James is unexpected. Loud, confident, untamed. He's everything I'm not.

I don't know if that scares me or fascinates me.

James
The café smells like burnt sugar and old books. We sit in the corner, him nursing black coffee and me drinking a sugar bomb he pretends not to judge.

The silences aren't as awkward now, but I still hate them. "So," I say. "What's with the birds?"

Charlie glances at me, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"In your sketches," I say. "Birds. Why?"

He looks down at his coffee, turning the cup in his hands. "They're... free," he says quietly. "They can leave whenever they want."

That hits me harder than I expect. "You want to leave?"

Charlie doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is barely above a whisper. "Sometimes."

I don't know what to say to that. So I don't.

Instead, I change the subject. "You ever try making jewelry?"

He looks at me like I've just suggested he rob a bank. "No."

"You should," I say. "Might surprise yourself."

Charlie raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching. "What? Afraid you'll like it?"

"Maybe."

Charlie
We're standing outside the café now, the sun dipping low behind the rooftops. I've got the pendant in my pocket, his words echoing in my mind.

"You gonna be at school tomorrow?" he asks, leaning against the wall with that easy grin that's starting to feel dangerous.

"Probably," I say.

"You wanna meet up? After?"

I hesitate, but only for a second. "Sure."

"Cool."

We stand there for a moment, the silence stretching out between us again. But this time, it feels less like a gap and more like a bridge.

"See you tomorrow," I say.

"See you," he replies, and for once, his voice is softer, quieter.

I walk away, and I don't look back.

April 17
I don't know what I'm doing.

James feels like a wildfire—bright and chaotic and impossible to contain. I should stay away. I should run.

But I won't.

He gave me this stupid pendant, and now it's sitting on my desk like it owns the place. I don't even know why I took it.

Tomorrow, we're meeting after school. I should be nervous. I should be excited. I don't know what I feel.

Maybe that's the problem.

Until next time,

Charlie.