Scene 34¶
😉💛
Notes26-01-22e¶
Scene 34¶
[26-01-22]
Scene 34 — “After Hours” (Celeste POV)
That night, Wardrobe let go of us the way it always did—gradually.
Voices thinned. The kettle went quiet. The last pair of shears found its tin. Fabric was folded, not abandoned. The ledger closed with its familiar, satisfied weight.
Mara didn’t say goodnight. She never did. She simply kept writing until the room was no longer full of people worth supervising.
Sarah left with a wave that was too casual to be innocent.
Lauren had texted twice during the afternoon—short, functional updates, no drama.
Bloods booked. GP tomorrow. She’s okay.
Then, later:
She’s glowing. Don’t make a thing of it.
I stared at that second message longer than I needed to.
As if the phone had said something else underneath it.
Don’t you dare break her with your own feelings.
I didn’t reply. Not because I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t trust myself not to say too much.
When I finally stepped out into the evening air, Charli was already there—waiting near the gate, bag on her shoulder, hair tied back under a simple scarf. She looked tired and bright at the same time, the way people look when something heavy has shifted and the body hasn’t caught up.
She saw me and straightened, that old reflex half-returning.
Then she caught herself.
And stood normally.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied, and felt how strange it was—how intimate it sounded, coming from me, without the room around it.
We started walking.
Not toward her place. Not toward mine. Just... away.
It wasn’t a decision I announced. It was a direction my body took before my mind could turn it into policy.
Charli matched my pace without asking what we were doing, which should have been normal and wasn’t. For months, she’d needed permission for every step. Now she simply walked beside me like she belonged there.
The street was quiet. The air held that faint smell of eucalyptus and cooling asphalt. Somewhere, a dog barked once and stopped, as if even dogs were tired.
Charli kept her hands on her bag strap, fingers curled tight. She wasn’t trembling. She was holding herself together in a different way—like she was trying not to disturb her own happiness by moving too quickly.
“You did well today,” I said.
Charli gave a small laugh. “At... hats?”
“At existing,” I said before I could stop myself.
She looked at me sharply, startled.
I felt my own face warm, annoyed at my lack of control.
I kept my voice even.
“You don’t apologise as much,” I said. “That’s progress.”
Charli’s mouth softened. “I try,” she said. Then, after a beat: “It’s easier when I’m not... scared all the time.”
The words sat between us.
Not a confession. A fact.
I should have responded like an adult. Like a supervisor. Like the woman who had done all this so carefully.
Instead, I heard myself say, quieter than I intended:
“I’m glad you’re not scared.”
Charli’s gaze stayed on my face. Not darting away. Not bracing for correction.
Just... looking.
It made my throat tighten.
The sidewalk dipped toward a small park—nothing romantic, just a stretch of grass and a bench and a tired little tree. I sat down without thinking. Charli sat too, careful at first, then easing as if she remembered she’d earned benches now.
For a moment we listened to the world do nothing.
Then Charli spoke, softly.
“Lauren said you called her,” she said.
“Yes.”
Charli swallowed. “Thank you.”
“For calling your mum?”
“For... not letting me keep doing something stupid,” she said, and the faintest smile flickered. “Even when I hated you for it.”
I looked at her. “You hated me?”
Charli’s eyes widened, horrified. “No— I mean— not you. Not you. Just... the feeling. The idea of it stopping.”
I nodded once. I understood.
“I know,” I said. “I would have hated me too.”
Charli let out a breath—half laugh, half sob she didn’t let happen.
“I thought you’d... be disgusted,” she whispered.
The word landed hard.
I turned fully toward her.
“Disgusted?” I repeated, carefully, like I wanted her to hear how wrong it was.
Charli’s shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug. “People are,” she said. “Usually.”
Anger flared in me. Not hot, not wild. Cold and precise.
“That’s not your problem,” I said. “That’s theirs.”
Charli stared at me, eyes wet but steady.
“And you?” she asked, almost inaudible.
It was the simplest question in the world.
It did not feel simple.
I could have answered it a dozen ways that kept me safe. I could have lied gently. I could have dodged.
Instead I heard my own voice—slow, deliberate—like I was stepping onto a floor I hadn’t tested.
“I am not disgusted,” I said.
Charli’s mouth trembled.
“I... admire you,” I added, and felt the word pull something open in my chest. “You were alone with something frightening, and you still kept walking. You didn’t stop trying.”
Charli blinked fast. Her hands tightened on her strap.
“You’re the one who kept me,” she whispered.
The sentence was too much like mine.
I should have corrected it.
I didn’t.
I watched her struggle for another breath.
Then she said, quietly, like a truth she couldn’t afford to decorate:
“I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel.”
There it was.
Not “I love you.”
Not “Do you want me.”
Just the core confusion of someone who has spent her life being told wanting is dangerous.
I felt, in that moment, the full weight of what I held.
If I moved wrong here, if I moved fast, if I let my own hunger steer, I would become just another person who used her.
And I would rather die.
So I did it the only way that matched who I was.
I told her the rules.
Not Wardrobe rules.
Us rules.
“Off the clock,” I said first.
Charli nodded, immediate, as if relieved there was structure.
“No secrets,” I said.
Another nod.
“And you don’t do anything because you think it will make me keep you,” I said, and my voice went sharp with it. “Do you understand me?”
Charli’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t—”
“I know,” I said, gentler. “But you might try without meaning to. You’re trained for that.”
Charli’s throat moved. She nodded again, smaller.
I held her gaze.
Then I let myself say the thing I’d been swallowing for weeks.
“I’m having trouble keeping distance from you,” I said.
Charli went very still.
Not afraid.
Listening.
“I don’t want to be someone who holds power over you,” I continued, careful. “And I do have power. In your life. In the room.”
Charli whispered, “You’re not—”
“I am,” I said, not unkind. “Which is why I’m saying it out loud. So we can do it clean.”
Her breath shook.
“Do what?” she asked.
I looked at her mouth.
Then forced myself back to her eyes.
“This,” I said.
And because I couldn’t trust ambiguity, because she deserved certainty, I asked:
“May I kiss you?”
Charli’s lips parted. Her face went pink—soft, incredulous—and for a second she looked like she might disappear from the sheer pressure of being wanted.
Then she nodded.
Once.
Clear.
“Yes,” she whispered.
I moved slowly. Not because I was hesitant.
Because I was careful.
Because she was not something you grabbed.
My hand lifted—hovered near her cheek—and I waited one heartbeat, giving her space to pull away if she needed.
She didn’t.
She leaned into my palm like she’d been doing it in secret for months.
I kissed her—gentle, brief, a question more than an answer.
When I pulled back, Charli stayed close, eyes closed for a moment as if she was trying to hold the sensation in her body without frightening it away.
I didn’t touch her again immediately. I let her breathe.
“That,” I said softly, “is allowed.”
Charli made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and this time I let my thumb wipe the corner of her mouth, light as air.
“You’re... sure?” she whispered.
I felt my own smile—small, steady.
“Yes,” I said. “And I’ll keep being sure tomorrow, too.”
Charli’s eyes searched my face the way they always did when she needed proof.
She found it.
Her shoulders dropped. Her whole body softened like a person setting down a burden she’d been carrying in public.
And I realised, with a kind of quiet awe, that this was the real threshold.
Not the bottle. Not the paperwork. Not the bloodwork.
This.
A girl being allowed to be loved without having to earn it by being brave.
I kept my forehead near hers, not touching, close enough to share warmth.
“We go slow,” I said.
Charli nodded.
“And if you change your mind at any point,” I added, “you tell me. No apology.”
Another nod.
Her voice was so small when she spoke, it almost didn’t make it to the air.
“Okay.”
Not “sorry.”
Not “thank you.”
Just okay.
And that—more than anything—made my chest ache.
We sat on the bench until the night grew cooler.
Then I stood.
“Come on,” I said.
Charli rose, obedient out of habit, then steadied herself and walked beside me again—closer now, shoulder almost brushing mine, as if she’d been given a new coordinate for where she was allowed to stand.
At the corner, she hesitated.
“Tomorrow,” she said, uncertain again. “At work—”
“At work,” I said, firm, “I’m still Celeste.”
Charli nodded.
“And tonight?” she asked, barely audible.
I looked at her.
The streetlight caught her face and made her look, suddenly, entirely real. Not a project. Not a question. Not a fragile thing.
A girl I wanted.
“Aren’t you clever,” I murmured, and my tone was wry enough to save us both.
Charli’s smile broke open, bright and bashful.
Then I softened.
“Tonight,” I said, “I’m still me.”
And I offered her my hand.
I didn’t take hers.
I offered.
Charli stared at it for a beat like it was something sacred.
Then she slid her fingers into mine.
Warm.
Certain.
And as we walked back toward the lit windows of the world, I realised the line I’d been holding for months had finally moved.
Not because I’d failed.
Because I’d chosen to.
If you’d like next: we can do a very short follow-up beat the next morning (Celeste POV) where they’re back in Wardrobe mode—professional, clean—and the romance is only in micro-signals: a glance not taken, a distance maintained, a quiet steadiness in Charli that makes Sarah’s crow-eyes sharpen. 😉💛
Notes26-01-22e2¶
After Hours¶
[26-01-22]
Scene 34bis — “After Hours” (Celeste POV) — Settled/Supervised Patch
That night, Wardrobe let go of us the way it always did—gradually.
Voices thinned. The kettle went quiet. The last pair of shears found its tin. Fabric was folded, not abandoned. The ledger closed with its familiar, satisfied weight.
Mara didn’t say goodnight. She never did. She simply kept writing until the room was no longer full of people worth supervising.
Sarah left with a wave that was too casual to be innocent.
Lauren had texted during the week—short, functional updates, no drama.
Appointments attended. Scripts sorted. Baselines logged. A specialist who didn’t blink. Bloodwork numbers filed like any other constraint: information you used, not something you sentimentalised.
Mara had asked for constraints the way she asked for grainlines—so she could build around them—and then returned to work as if the world had simply corrected itself. No commentary. No fuss. Only a quiet, relentless insistence that Charli be held safely inside the same standards as everyone else.
The acute danger was over.
Not the whole story—never that—but the cliff-edge of secrecy, the frantic improvisation, the bottle on the table: finished. The boring machine had engaged, and with it came a relief that wasn’t joy exactly, but something sturdier.
Safety that didn’t depend on luck.
I stared at Lauren’s last message longer than I needed to.
She’s okay. Don’t make a thing of it.
As if the phone had said something else underneath it.
Don’t you dare break her with your own feelings.
I didn’t reply. Not because I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t trust myself not to say too much.
When I finally stepped out into the evening air, Charli was already there—waiting near the gate, bag on her shoulder, hair tied back under a simple scarf. She looked tired and bright at the same time, the way people look when something heavy has shifted and the body hasn’t caught up.
She saw me and straightened, that old reflex half-returning.
Then she caught herself.
And stood normally.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied, and felt how strange it was—how intimate it sounded, coming from me, without the room around it.
We started walking.
Not toward her place. Not toward mine. Just... away.
It wasn’t a decision I announced. It was a direction my body took before my mind could turn it into policy.
Charli matched my pace without asking what we were doing, which should have been normal and wasn’t. For months she’d needed permission for every step. Now she simply walked beside me like she belonged there.
The street was quiet. The air held that faint smell of eucalyptus and cooling asphalt. Somewhere, a dog barked once and stopped, as if even dogs were tired.
Charli kept her hands on her bag strap, fingers curled tight. She wasn’t trembling. She was holding herself together in a different way—like she was trying not to disturb her own happiness by moving too quickly.
“You did well today,” I said.
Charli gave a small laugh. “At... hats?”
“At existing,” I said before I could stop myself.
She looked at me sharply, startled.
I felt my own face warm, annoyed at my lack of control.
I kept my voice even.
“You don’t apologise as much,” I said. “That’s progress.”
Charli’s mouth softened. “I try,” she said. Then, after a beat: “It’s easier when I’m not... scared all the time.”
The words sat between us.
Not a confession. A fact.
I should have responded like an adult. Like a supervisor. Like the woman who had done all this so carefully.
Instead, I heard myself say, quieter than I intended:
“I’m glad you’re not scared.”
Charli’s gaze stayed on my face. Not darting away. Not bracing for correction.
Just... looking.
It made my throat tighten.
The sidewalk dipped toward a small park—nothing romantic, just a stretch of grass and a bench and a tired little tree. I sat down without thinking. Charli sat too, careful at first, then easing as if she remembered she’d earned benches now.
For a moment we listened to the world do nothing.
Then Charli spoke, softly.
“Lauren said you kept checking,” she said.
“Checking what?”
“On me,” she said, and the embarrassment was faint, but real. “All week. At work. Not... obvious. Just—” She made a small motion with her fingers, as if miming a glance she didn’t want to name.
Heat rose in my face again. Annoyance, mostly.
“I was checking constraints,” I said.
Charli’s mouth curved in a way that told me she didn’t believe me.
“Mm,” she said, gently, and somehow the sound was an accusation and a kindness at once.
I exhaled through my nose, slow.
“Fine,” I said. “I was checking you.”
Charli went very still.
Not afraid.
Listening.
“I didn’t want you to feel watched,” I added, and heard, belatedly, how intimate that sounded. “But I needed to know you were... okay.”
Charli’s breath hitched once. “I am,” she whispered.
And then, because she was braver now—braver because the world had stopped punishing her for wanting—she said:
“You were angry.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Not at me,” she clarified quickly, old reflex rising.
I stopped that with my eyes.
“No,” I said. “Not at you.”
Charli swallowed. “Thank you,” she said, and her voice was steadier than it used to be. “For not letting me keep doing something stupid.”
I looked at her. “You hated me.”
Charli’s eyes widened, horrified. “No— I mean— not you. Not you. Just... the feeling. The idea of it stopping.”
I nodded once. I understood.
“I know,” I said. “I would have hated me too.”
Charli let out a breath—half laugh, half sob she didn’t let happen.
“I thought you’d... be disgusted,” she whispered.
The word landed hard.
I turned fully toward her.
“Disgusted?” I repeated, carefully, like I wanted her to hear how wrong it was.
Charli’s shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug. “People are,” she said. “Usually.”
Anger flared in me. Not hot, not wild. Cold and precise.
“That’s not your problem,” I said. “That’s theirs.”
Charli stared at me, eyes wet but steady.
“And you?” she asked, almost inaudible.
It was the simplest question in the world.
It did not feel simple.
I could have answered it a dozen ways that kept me safe. I could have lied gently. I could have dodged.
Instead I heard my own voice—slow, deliberate—like I was stepping onto a floor I hadn’t tested.
“I am not disgusted,” I said.
Charli’s mouth trembled.
“I... admire you,” I added, and felt the word pull something open in my chest. “You were alone with something frightening, and you still kept walking. You didn’t stop trying.”
Charli blinked fast, holding herself together. “You’re the one who kept me,” she whispered.
The sentence was too much like mine.
I should have corrected it.
I didn’t.
I watched her struggle for another breath.
Then she said, quietly, like a truth she couldn’t afford to decorate:
“I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel.”
There it was.
Not “I love you.”
Not “Do you want me.”
Just the core confusion of someone who has spent her life being told wanting is dangerous.
I felt, in that moment, the full weight of what I held.
If I moved wrong here, if I moved fast, if I let my own hunger steer, I would become just another person who used her.
And I would rather die.
So I did it the only way that matched who I was.
I told her the rules.
Not Wardrobe rules.
Us rules.
“Off the clock,” I said first.
Charli nodded, immediate, as if relieved there was structure.
“No secrets,” I said.
Another nod.
“And you don’t do anything because you think it will make me keep you,” I said, and my voice went sharp with it. “Do you understand me?”
Charli’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t—”
“I know,” I said, gentler. “But you might try without meaning to. You’re trained for that.”
Charli’s throat moved. She nodded again, smaller.
I held her gaze.
Then I let myself say the thing I’d been swallowing for weeks.
“I’m having trouble keeping distance from you,” I said.
Charli went very still.
Not afraid.
Listening.
“I don’t want to be someone who holds power over you,” I continued, careful. “And I do have power. In your life. In the room.”
Charli whispered, “You’re not—”
“I am,” I said, not unkind. “Which is why I’m saying it out loud. So we can do it clean.”
Her breath shook.
“Do what?” she asked.
I looked at her mouth.
Then forced myself back to her eyes.
“This,” I said.
And because I couldn’t trust ambiguity, because she deserved certainty, I asked:
“May I kiss you?”
Charli’s lips parted. Her face went pink—soft, incredulous—and for a second she looked like she might disappear from the sheer pressure of being wanted.
Then she nodded.
Once.
Clear.
“Yes,” she whispered.
I moved slowly. Not because I was hesitant.
Because I was careful.
Because she was not something you grabbed.
My hand lifted—hovered near her cheek—and I waited one heartbeat, giving her space to pull away if she needed.
She didn’t.
She leaned into my palm like she’d been doing it in secret for months.
I kissed her—gentle, brief, a question more than an answer.
When I pulled back, Charli stayed close, eyes closed for a moment as if she was trying to hold the sensation in her body without frightening it away.
I didn’t touch her again immediately. I let her breathe.
“That,” I said softly, “is allowed.”
Charli made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and this time I let my thumb wipe the corner of her mouth, light as air.
“You’re... sure?” she whispered.
I felt my own smile—small, steady.
“Yes,” I said. “And I’ll keep being sure tomorrow, too.”
Charli’s eyes searched my face the way they always did when she needed proof.
She found it.
Her shoulders dropped. Her whole body softened like a person setting down a burden she’d been carrying in public.
And I realised, with a kind of quiet awe, that this was the real threshold.
Not the bottle. Not the paperwork. Not the bloodwork.
This.
A girl being allowed to be loved without having to earn it by being brave.
I kept my forehead near hers, not touching, close enough to share warmth.
“We go slow,” I said.
Charli nodded.
“And if you change your mind at any point,” I added, “you tell me. No apology.”
Another nod.
Her voice was so small when she spoke, it almost didn’t make it to the air.
“Okay.”
Not “sorry.”
Not “thank you.”
Just okay.
And that—more than anything—made my chest ache.
We sat on the bench until the night grew cooler.
Then I stood.
“Come on,” I said.
Charli rose, obedient out of habit, then steadied herself and walked beside me again—closer now, shoulder almost brushing mine, as if she’d been given a new coordinate for where she was allowed to stand.
At the corner, she hesitated.
“Tomorrow,” she said, uncertain again. “At work—”
“At work,” I said, firm, “I’m still Celeste.”
Charli nodded.
“And tonight?” she asked, barely audible.
I looked at her.
The streetlight caught her face and made her look, suddenly, entirely real. Not a project. Not a question. Not a fragile thing.
A girl I wanted.
“Aren’t you clever,” I murmured, and my tone was wry enough to save us both.
Charli’s smile broke open, bright and bashful.
Then I softened.
“Tonight,” I said, “I’m still me.”
And I offered her my hand.
I didn’t take hers.
I offered.
Charli stared at it for a beat like it was something sacred.
Then she slid her fingers into mine.
Warm.
Certain.
And as we walked back toward the lit windows of the world, I realised the line I’d been holding for months had finally moved.
Not because I’d failed.
Because I’d chosen to.
Notes26-01-25vign a¶
✨ Girl Arrives ✨¶
[26-01-26]
A drop-in vignette (Celeste POV, past tense) — “Girl” arrives
Inside, the apartment was dim and quiet, still holding the day’s warmth in the walls. I switched on the lamp by the kitchen and the light pooled softly on the bench—no interrogation brightness, just enough to be real.
“Sit,” I said, and put the kettle on.
Charli lowered herself onto the chair like her bones were tired of carrying her. She held her tote in her lap for a moment, then set it down carefully, as if it might break.
I filled a glass and slid it to her. Then I went to the cupboard for something plain—crackers, a banana, anything that would ask nothing of her.
The kettle began to whisper.
Charli stared at the glass and didn’t touch it.
“Hey,” I said, not sharp, just present. “Drink.”
She obeyed. A small sip. Another.
Her shoulders eased a fraction, as if her body recognised care even when her mind didn’t trust it yet.
For a while we stayed in the quiet—kettle, fridge hum, the distant sound of someone’s television through a wall. Ordinary life insisting on itself.
Then Charli spoke without looking at me.
“My mum...” Her voice caught. She swallowed. “She said she could learn.”
I nodded. “She meant it.”
Charli’s fingers worried the hem of her sleeve.
“And you...” She hesitated, almost angry at herself for asking. “You said you noticed me.”
“Yes,” I said.
She looked up then, and her eyes were bright—not drama, not performance. Just the raw edge of a day that had asked too much of her.
“I don’t know what I am,” she whispered. “I just know what I can’t be. And I—” Another swallow. “I don’t want to keep... fighting words.”
I didn’t move. I let the silence hold, the way Wardrobe held silence when someone needed space to be real.
Charli’s voice dropped even lower, like she was testing whether the air would punish her.
“But with you...” she began, then stopped, and something in her face tightened with fear. “Is it... stupid if I say it?”
My throat tightened.
“What,” I asked gently.
She stared at the tabletop as if it could absorb the shame.
“Girl,” she whispered.
The word landed between us like something fragile. Not triumphant. Not cute.
A bridge.
I let a breath out slowly, careful not to make it sound like relief at having “won” anything.
“Not stupid,” I said. “Just... brave.”
Charli blinked hard. One tear slid down her cheek and she didn’t wipe it away.
I kept my voice even, the way you do when you’re handling something that matters.
“Does that word feel right,” I asked, “when you say it here.”
Her chin dipped. A small nod.
“Okay,” I said. “Then we can use it here.”
She looked up quickly, startled by the simplicity.
“Here,” I repeated. “In this house. On days when it helps. And if you ever don’t want it, we drop it. No penalties.”
Charli’s breath hitched.
“And... outside?” she asked.
I shook my head once. “Outside is yours to decide. We don’t rush language into places where it can be used against you.”
Her shoulders lowered again, another fraction.
The kettle clicked off.
I poured the water, set the mug down, and only then—only when I was sure it wouldn’t tip her into overwhelm—I added, quiet as a promise:
“And Charli? No one who loves you gets to make that word into a weapon.”
She held the mug with both hands, like it was heat she could borrow.
For the first time all day, her face softened—not into happiness, not yet.
Into something like permission.
Notes26-01-25vign b¶
[26-01-26]
Drop-in vignette (Celeste POV, past tense) — uses your exact logic
This is written to match your tone and the arc we’ve just built (post-clinic, post-Lauren, distance thinning). Celeste reassures without declaring Charli “inevitable.”
Charli stood by the sink with the mug between her hands, as if the warmth was something she needed permission to keep.
“My mum...” she started, then stopped. Her throat moved. “She said she could learn.”
“She meant it,” I said.
Charli looked down at the tea. “She’s trying. It’s just...” Her mouth tightened. “It’s hard for her to say.”
I nodded once. I could have said a dozen things about Lauren’s blindness, about grief grooves and old pronouns, but tonight wasn’t for judging Lauren. Tonight was for keeping Charli intact.
Charli’s voice dropped. “Was it... weird for you. When Wardrobe started calling me she.”
The question carried something underneath it: Did I fool you too?
“No,” I said.
She blinked up at me.
I kept my voice level, the way you do when you’re handling something fragile and real.
“When I met you, ‘Charles’ didn’t fit,” I said. “Not because of a theory. Because of... you. The way you moved. The way you held yourself. The way you kept trying to be good in a room that was already reading you as something else.”
Charli’s hands tightened around the mug.
“So you thought—”
“I thought you were being mislabelled,” I said. “And I thought it was costing you.”
Her breath hitched.
“The room didn’t invent it,” I added, quieter. “It just... finally said out loud what I’d been noticing for a long time.”
Charli stared at me as if she didn’t trust the kindness in it.
I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I let her have the space to decide what to do with my words.
Then I said the part that mattered.
“But listen to me,” I said. “You don’t owe me a conclusion. You don’t owe anyone a speech. If there’s a word that hurts, we drop it. If there’s a word that helps, we use it—here, first—until you’re sure it’s yours.”
Her eyes went bright again.
“You really... saw me,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “From the beginning.”
And I felt my own restraint thin, not into hunger, not into possession—into something cleaner.
Care that didn’t need to stand at a distance to be safe.
Notes26-01-25vign c¶
[26-01-26]
A scene fragment you can drop in (Celeste POV, past tense)
This is the “Charli shares an unspoken desire” moment, handled exactly with your constraint: Celeste invites truth; doesn’t define it.
Charli’s fingers worried the edge of her sleeve. Again. Again.
“There’s something I haven’t said,” she whispered.
I didn’t move. I didn’t lean in like this was a confession I was entitled to. I kept my voice level.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you want me to listen, or do you want help finding the words.”
Charli blinked rapidly, as if even that choice was too much kindness.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s... dangerous.”
I nodded once. I let her hear that I believed her.
“Then we don’t take it outside,” I said. “We keep it here. No audience. No consequences. Just truth.”
Her throat bobbed. She swallowed hard.
“Mum would—”
“I know,” I said quietly. “And your friends might misunderstand. And you might not even fully understand it yourself yet.”
Charli’s eyes went wide, startled by the fact that I’d named the whole minefield without flinching.
I softened my tone—not into vagueness, into steadiness.
“But you’re allowed to want things,” I said. “You’re allowed to notice what makes you feel safe. None of that is a crime.”
Charli stared at the mug between her hands as if it was the only solid thing in the room.
“I just... I don’t want to be—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want to be pushed into the other thing.”
“Okay,” I said. “So we don’t push. We don’t force. We don’t make declarations to satisfy anyone. We just tell the truth in small pieces, as you can carry it.”
She breathed out, shaky.
“What if the truth is...” She stopped, cheeks flushing with shame that didn’t belong to her.
I waited.
Then I said, carefully: “If there’s a word you’re afraid to say, you can try it here. Once. You can take it back. You stay in control.”
Charli’s eyes filled.
“And you won’t—”
“I won’t do anything with it,” I said. “I won’t build a story around it. I won’t use it as leverage. I won’t rush you.”
Her breath hitched.
“Okay,” she whispered, like she was stepping onto a bridge and praying it held.
I kept my gaze steady.
“You don’t have to be brave in public,” I said. “Just honest with yourself. That’s enough for tonight.”
This sets up Charli maybe saying “girl” next, or maybe not yet — and either is fine. The point is: Celeste has created a space where Charli can tell the truth without it becoming a trap.
Notes26-01-25ec¶
✨ Here ✨¶
[26-01-26]
Scene 34 — “Here” (Celeste POV, past tense)
Home greeted us with the reassuringly familiar quiet: the fridge hum, the faint creak in the hallway floorboard, the smell of yesterday’s laundry powder trapped in the cushions. Ordinary life, holding its lines. The kind of ordinary that feels merciful, soothing when your day has been a series of doors and forms and questions.
Charli kicked her shoes off carefully near the mat—as if she’d been trained to be apologetic even to a pair of sneakers—then stood there for a second too long with her tote still on her shoulder.
I didn’t rush her.
I didn’t say how are you, because that question was too large and too loose. It would invite either a collapse or a lie. I gave her something smaller. Something she could do.
“Wash your hands,” I said, and I let the instruction sound like care, not control. “Then have a glass of water.”
Her shoulders eased a fraction at the familiarity of procedure. She moved to the sink. Turned the tap. Soap. Palms, backs, fingers, nails: meticulous, the way she always was. She expressed competence as a kind of prayer. I filled a glass and slid it onto the counter within reach. When she finished, she took it without looking at me and drank in small, obedient sips. Proof she was still inside her body.
I put the kettle on. Not tea as a hug: tea as heat, routine, and an excuse for the solace of silence. While the water warmed, Charli sat at the kitchen table and placed the folded papers from the appointment neatly beside her tote. She stared at them wordlessly.
I made toast.
Two slices, plain. Butter, vegemite. The smell rose quietly, and the kitchen began to feel less like a place where betrayals can happen, and more like a place where solutions can be found.
When I set the plate down, she flinched—tiny, automatic—as if she expected the gesture to come with a price.
“Eat,” I said simply.
She obeyed and took a bite. Chewed too carefully. I waited. Let the kettle hiss and the toast do its slow work. After a minute, she spoke without lifting her eyes.
“My mum said ‘Don’t,’” she whispered. “In the car,” she added, voice thin. “When I said I was scared about... stuff.”
I didn’t pretend to misunderstand. I nodded, giving her the dignity of being believed. Charli swallowed hard. Her hands tightened around the edge of the plate.
“I know she didn’t mean it like...” She shook her head, frustrated. “She wasn’t trying to be mean.”
No. Lauren wasn’t being meaan. Lauren was terrified. And afraid of anything that sounded like a cliff edge.
“She meant ‘don’t borrow pain that hasn’t happened yet,’” I said quietly. Charli’s breath hitched, like the sentence gave her a rung to stand on.
“But it still...” Her voice cracked. “It still made me stop talking.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“Yeah,” I said. “Because ‘don’t’ can sound like shut up, even when it’s meant as protection.”
Charli stared at the toast. Her eyes were bright again, unperformed. She blinked fast, and for once she didn’t apologise for it.
The kettle clicked off.
I poured the water, set a mug down in front of her, then sat opposite her: close enough to be present, far enough to not crowd her. I didn’t reach across the table. I didn’t touch her hand.
I held the space. Charli swallowed again.“I don’t want to upset her.”
“You don’t have to manage your mother’s feelings by disappearing.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine. I softened my voice. “She’s allowed to have feelings. You’re allowed to exist anyway.”
Charli’s mouth trembled. She looked down quickly.
The silence stretched. Not empty. Working.
Then she said, so quietly it almost didn’t carry:
“I think... there’s something else.”
I didn’t move.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you want me to listen, or do you want help finding words.”
She blinked rapidly. The question itself seemed to steady her—permission, choice, control.
“Help,” she whispered.
I nodded. “All right.”
Charli’s fingers worried the corner of a napkin. Again. Again.
“It’s... dangerous,” she said.
I let that land. I didn’t dismiss it. I didn’t minimise it into you’re safe here like a slogan.
Instead, I did what Wardrobe had taught me: I built the container.
“Then we keep it in the safest place first,” I said. “Here. This table. This room. No audience. No consequences. No decisions you can’t undo.”
Her shoulders lowered a fraction.
“You’re not going to tell my mum,” she said, and the fear behind the sentence was almost childlike.
“I’m not going to take your words and weaponise them,” I said. “I won’t do anything with them without you.”
Charli’s eyes went wider, like that was a new kind of safety she hadn’t expected anyone to offer.
I continued, calm and careful. “If you tell me something tonight, it stays yours. I can help you hold it, but I don’t get to own it.”
She swallowed. “Okay.”
I watched her breathing. Slow. Shaky, but present.
“Try it in pieces,” I said. “Start with what you know.”
Charli stared at the mug. Her voice came out rough.
“I know I don’t want to be called ‘sir’.”
I nodded. “Good. That’s true.”
“And I don’t want...” She winced as if the next word could bite her. “I don’t want ‘son.’”
The word made the air feel heavier.
I didn’t flinch.
“Okay,” I said again. “So we drop those words.”
Charli’s breath left her in a trembling exhale.
“And...” She stopped.
I waited.
“And there’s a word that...” Her eyes squeezed shut for a second, as if she was bracing for impact. “There’s a word that feels... like it might fit.”
My heart thudded once, hard. I kept my face neutral, because this couldn’t be about my anticipation. It had to be about her courage.
“What’s the word,” I asked, gentle.
She didn’t answer immediately.
She stared at the tabletop so intensely I thought she might be trying to burn a hole through it.
Then, in a whisper that barely counted as sound, she said:
“Girl.”
It landed like something fragile and bright.
Not a performance. Not a victory.
A test. A reach.
For a second her eyes flicked up to mine—quick, terrified—then away again, as if she couldn’t bear to see my reaction.
I let a breath out slowly, careful not to make it a sigh of relief, careful not to turn this into I knew it.
“Not stupid,” I said. “And not dangerous in here.”
Charli’s throat bobbed. She swallowed hard.
I kept my voice steady. “How does it feel when you say it.”
She shook her head once, almost angry at herself. “I don’t know.”
“Try again,” I said softly. “Only if you want.”
She hesitated.
Then she whispered, a little clearer this time, like she was learning how to let the word take up space:
“Girl.”
Her shoulders dropped a fraction. A tiny release.
Not happiness. Relief.
Her eyes flooded, and this time a tear slid down and she didn’t move to stop it. She just let it happen, as if she was too tired to police herself.
I didn’t tell her not to cry.
I didn’t reach across the table to wipe the tear either.
I let the tear be what it was: evidence that her body had found a truth it could breathe around.
“You don’t have to commit to anything tonight,” I said. “Saying a word isn’t signing a contract.”
Charli’s laugh broke into something that wasn’t quite a laugh—more like a cracked sound of disbelief.
“But... if I say it,” she whispered, “then it’s real.”
I chose my next words carefully, because this was the hinge.
“It’s real that the word gives you relief,” I said. “That matters. Relief is information. It’s not the whole story, but it’s not nothing.”
She stared at the table, trembling.
“What if my mum—”
“We don’t take this word into places where it can be used against you,” I said. “Not yet. And not unless you choose.”
Charli’s eyes flicked to mine again. Searching.
“You really mean that,” she said.
“Yes.”
A beat.
Then she whispered, “I think... I want it.”
The sentence was so quiet it would have been easy to miss.
I didn’t let myself smile. Not because I wasn’t moved—because I was. But because a smile here could feel like approval, like reward, like Celeste getting what she wanted.
This wasn’t about me winning a prediction.
This was about her surviving herself.
So I gave her the cleanest version of support I had.
“Okay,” I said. “Then you’re allowed to want it.”
Her breath hitched.
“And you’re allowed to be scared of wanting it,” I added. “Both can be true.”
Charli covered her mouth with her hand like she was trying to hold herself in. Tears slipped down and she made no sound.
I watched her hands—small, careful hands that had sorted pins and mended seams and tried to stitch herself into acceptability—and something in my ribs tightened painfully.
I wanted to cross the table. I wanted to pull her into my arms and wrap her up and make everything simple.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
Because wanting to comfort her and needing to comfort her were not the same thing—and I refused to teach her that she had to fall apart to earn softness.
Instead, I did what I could do safely: I anchored her.
“Tell me what you’re afraid will happen,” I said quietly.
Charli’s voice came out muffled behind her hand.
“That if I say it out loud,” she whispered, “I’ll lose everyone.”
I nodded, slow. “That’s a real fear.”
She lowered her hand, eyes wet. “And if I don’t say it, I’ll lose...” She faltered. “Me.”
The sentence hit like a bell. Clear. Final.
I felt my eyes burn. I kept my voice even.
“Okay,” I said. “Then tonight, you don’t lose you.”
Charli stared at me, stunned by the simplicity.
I continued, calm as structure. “We keep it here. We practise saying it in safety. We let the professionals help you work out what it means and what you want. And we don’t let anyone rush you into public declarations you’re not ready for.”
She blinked, and something in her face softened.
“You’re not... disappointed,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “I’m relieved you told someone the truth before it turned into another secret.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“And,” I added, because it mattered, “I’m proud of you for being brave in the only place bravery actually counts—inside yourself.”
Charli’s eyes closed briefly, like she couldn’t stand the tenderness of that sentence.
When she opened them again, she looked smaller. Not diminished.
Just unarmoured.
“Can I...” she began, then stopped.
I didn’t interrupt. I waited.
She whispered, “Can I say it again.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes,” I said. “If you want.”
She took a shaky breath, then let the word come out like a candle flame in a dark room.
“Girl.”
I nodded once, solemn as a vow.
“Okay,” I said. “Girl.”
She stared at me as if the echo of the word might be too much generosity to accept.
Then she exhaled, long and trembling, and her shoulders settled like something heavy had finally been set down.
The room went quiet again.
Not empty.
Intentional.
Waiting.
I stood, moved to the sink, rinsed the knife, wiped the bench—small domestic motions that said we are still in life; life continues; you are not alone in it.
When I turned back, Charli was watching me with eyes still wet, but steadier.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I nodded once. “Drink your tea.”
She obeyed.
And the obedience this time didn’t look like fear.
It looked like trust.
Notes26-01-25ew¶
✨ Here ✨¶
[26-01-26]
Scene 34 — “Here” (Celeste POV, past tense) — warmer revision 🌸
Home met us the way it always did: quietly.
The hallway smelled faintly of detergent and warm timber. The living room lamp cast a soft pool of light that didn’t demand anything of you. Even the fridge hum felt like background reassurance—life is still normal, you’re still in it.
Charli took her shoes off at the door, careful, as if she didn’t quite trust herself not to make a mess of the floor. She still had her tote on her shoulder. She stood there with it, not moving, like the day might collapse if she set it down.I didn’t say anything for a second. Then I stepped beside her, keeping my voice low.
“You’re home,” I said. “You did the hard part.”
Her breath left her in a small tremor. I nodded toward the kitchen.
“Come on. Tea. Water. Something in your stomach.”
She followed, because the bus ride home had already taught her that my steadiness wasn’t a trap. At the sink she washed her hands the way she always did: meticulous, thorough, almost ritual. I watched without comment, because that kind of care was one of the ways she kept herself intact.
I filled a glass and set it down.
“Drink,” I said, gently. “Just a few sips.”
She did. Small sips, obedient at first—then a longer one, like her body remembered it had permission to be looked after.
I put the kettle on.
The click and hiss of it felt like a signal to the room: we’re not in the clinic anymore. We’re not in the car anymore. We’re in a place where you don’t have to be brave in public. Charli sat at the table. She took the folded paper from the appointment and placed it beside her tote as neatly as if tidiness could keep it from being frightening.
I set toast down in front of her—plain, buttered, unambitious. Her eyes flicked to it, then to me. A question without words: Is it okay to need this?
“It’s okay,” I said, answering it. “Eat what you can.”
She took a bite. Chewed carefully. Swallowed like it cost her something.
I sat opposite her. Not across like a judge. Across like someone who intended to stay.
The kettle whispered.
For a while we let silence do what silence can do when it’s safe: soften the edges.
Then Charli spoke, staring into her tea mug like it might hold an answer.
“My mum said ‘Don’t,’” she whispered.
I felt my chest tighten—not anger, not judgement. Understanding.
“In the car,” she added. “When I started talking about the... future.”
I nodded once.
“She didn’t mean it like...” Charli’s voice cracked. “She wasn’t trying to be cruel.”
“No,” I said gently. “She wasn’t.”
Charli’s fingers pinched the edge of her sleeve.
“It still made me stop,” she admitted, shame creeping into it. Like stopping was a failure.
I leaned forward slightly, careful not to crowd her.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Because ‘don’t’ can sound like shut up when you’re already scared.”
Charli looked up at me fast, eyes bright.
I didn’t flinch away from it.
“I think she meant,” I added, “don’t borrow pain that hasn’t happened. But she said it with fear in her mouth.”
Charli swallowed. “It felt like... I wasn’t allowed to say the scary thing.”
“You are allowed,” I said, and my voice warmed around the sentence. “You’re allowed to say it here.”
Her breath hitched.
“Here,” I repeated, not as a slogan, as a promise. “This house doesn’t punish honesty.”
Charli’s shoulders lowered a fraction. The tiniest exhale.
The kettle clicked off. I poured the water, set the mug closer to her hands, and waited until she wrapped her fingers around it. Heat. Proof.
She stared at the mug for a long moment, then said, quietly:
“There’s something I haven’t said.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t lean in like I owned the confession.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you want me to just listen, or do you want help finding words.”
She blinked rapidly, the kindness of that choice almost too much.
“Help,” she whispered.
“All right,” I said.
She stared at the table.
“It’s... dangerous,” she said.
I let that stand. I didn’t rush to contradict it.
Then I said, very calmly: “Then we treat it carefully.”
Charli’s eyes flicked to mine.
“We keep it small,” I continued. “We keep it private. You don’t have to take it outside. You don’t have to take it to your mum. You don’t have to take it anywhere you don’t feel safe.”
She swallowed hard.
“And you won’t—” she began.
“I won’t do anything with your words,” I said gently. “I won’t build a story around them. I won’t make you into a project. You tell me what you can. I’ll hold it with you.”
Her throat bobbed. “Okay.”
I nodded. “Start with what you know.”
Charli’s voice came out rough.
“I know I don’t want ‘sir.’”
“Okay,” I said, steady. “That’s true.”
“And I don’t want...” She flinched. “I don’t want ‘son.’”
The word made her look smaller, as if it pressed her down.
I kept my tone soft. “Then we don’t use those words.”
Her breath shuddered out.
A pause. Then:
“There’s a word that...” She stopped, cheeks warming with shame that didn’t belong to her. “There’s a word that feels... like it might fit.”
My heart thudded once, hard. I kept my face neutral—not because I wasn’t moved, but because this couldn’t turn into my reaction.
“What word,” I asked, gentle.
Charli stared at the tabletop like it might swallow her.
Then, so softly it was almost air:
“Girl.”
The word landed between us like something breakable.
Charli glanced up at me—quick, terrified—and then looked away, braced for me to make it too much.
I didn’t.
I let my voice warm instead.
“Okay,” I said.
Her head jerked slightly, surprised.
I softened further. “How does it feel when you say it.”
She swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to know what it means yet. Just what it does to you.”
Her eyes shone.
“Does it hurt,” I asked, quietly, “or does it help.”
Charli’s breath caught.
“It helps,” she whispered, and the admission looked like it cost her months.
I nodded once. “Then it’s worth listening to.”
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.
Something in my chest pulled hard.
I hesitated—then asked, softly, like a courtesy and a vow in one:
“May I come closer.”
Charli blinked at me. Then nodded, tiny.
I stood and moved around the table slowly, as if speed might frighten her. I didn’t touch her right away. I just sat beside her—close enough that she could feel I was there.
Charli’s hands trembled around the mug.
“You’re not in trouble,” I murmured. “Not with me.”
Her breath hitched again. She stared at her tea as if it might spill.
“You’re allowed,” I said, gentle as silk, “to say the word that helps.”
Charli’s lips trembled. Then she whispered again, barely audible:
“Girl.”
I didn’t echo it back like a stamp.
I answered it like an ally.
“Okay,” I said softly. “Okay.”
She let out a sound that was almost a sob, and her shoulders shook once.
I didn’t pull her in. I didn’t claim her.
I offered one hand on the table between us, palm up.
“If you want,” I said, “you can take my hand. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
Charli looked at my hand like it was something sacred and frightening.
Then she placed her fingers into my palm.
Warm. Light. Real.
I closed my hand around hers—not tight, just enough to say I’ve got you—and kept my voice low.
“Tonight,” I said, “you don’t have to be brave in public. You can just be honest in here.”
Charli’s tears slid silently. She didn’t apologise for them.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said.
“And I don’t want to lose everyone.”
“You won’t lose me,” I said, immediate and simple. Then, softer: “And we’re not going to rush your words into places where they can be used against you. We do this step by step. Like the doctor said.”
Charli’s grip tightened slightly on my fingers.
After a moment she whispered, “Can I say it again.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes,” I said. “If you want.”
She breathed in, shaky, then let the word out like a small lantern in a dark room:
“Girl.”
I nodded once, solemn with respect.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”
She exhaled, long and trembling, and something in her shoulders settled—as if a weight she’d been holding alone had finally found another set of hands.
I stayed beside her. No speeches. No promises I couldn’t keep. Just presence.
After a minute I reached for the butter knife and the plate—quiet domestic tidying, the way you keep a room from turning into a shrine to fear.
“More toast?” I asked softly.
Charli shook her head. Then, after a beat, surprised herself.
“Maybe... later.”
“Whenever you want,” I said.
She sipped her tea.
And the sip this time wasn’t obedience.
It was trust.
Notes26-01-25rv1¶
✨ Here ✨¶
[26-01-29]
Scene 34 — “Here” (Celeste POV, past tense) — warmer revision 🌸
Home met us the way it always did: quietly.
The hallway smelled faintly of detergent and warm timber. The living room lamp cast a soft pool of light that didn’t demand anything of you. Even the fridge hum felt like background reassurance—life is still normal, you’re still in it.
Charli took her shoes off at the door, careful, as if she didn’t quite trust herself not to make a mess of the floor. She still had her tote on her shoulder. She stood there with it, not moving, like the day might collapse if she set it down.I didn’t say anything for a second. Then I stepped beside her, keeping my voice low.
“You’re home,” I said. “You did the hard part.”
Her breath left her in a small tremor. I nodded toward the kitchen.
“Come on. Tea. Water. Something in your stomach.”
She followed, because the bus ride home had already taught her that my steadiness wasn’t a trap. At the sink she washed her hands the way she always did: meticulous, thorough, almost ritual. I watched without comment, because that kind of care was one of the ways she kept herself intact.
I filled a glass and set it down.
“Drink,” I said, gently. “Just a few sips.”
She did. Small sips, obedient at first—then a longer one, like her body remembered it had permission to be looked after.
I put the kettle on.
The click and hiss of it felt like a signal to the room: we’re not in the clinic anymore. We’re not in the car anymore. We’re in a place where you don’t have to be brave in public. Charli sat at the table. She took the folded paper from the appointment and placed it beside her tote as neatly as if tidiness could keep it from being frightening.
I set toast down in front of her—plain, buttered, unambitious. Her eyes flicked to it, then to me. A question without words: Is it okay to need this?
“It’s okay,” I said, answering it. “Eat what you can.”
She took a bite. Chewed carefully. Swallowed like it cost her something.
I sat opposite her. Not across like a judge. Across like someone who intended to stay.
The kettle whispered.
For a while we let silence do what silence can do when it’s safe: soften the edges.
Then Charli spoke, staring into her tea mug like it might hold an answer.
“My mum said ‘Don’t,’” she whispered. I felt my chest tighten. “In the car,” she added. “When I started talking about the... future.” She paused, sighed. “She didn’t mean it like... she wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“No,” I said gently. “She wasn’t.”
Charli’s fingers pinched the edge of her sleeve.
“It still made me stop,” she admitted, shame creeping into it. Like stopping was a failure. I leaned forward slightly, careful not to crowd her.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Because ‘don’t’ can sound like shut up when you’re scared.” Charli looked up at me quickly, eyes bright. “I think she meant,” I added, “don’t borrow pain that hasn’t happened.”
Charli swallowed. “It felt like... I wasn’t allowed to say the scary thing.”
“You’re allowed to say it here.” My voice warmed around the sentence. “You need to understand: she’s scared too.”
Her breath hitched.
“It’s different, here,” I repeated, not as a slogan, as a promise. “This house doesn’t punish honesty.”
Charli’s shoulders lowered a fraction, the tiniest exhale. The kettle clicked off. I poured the water, set the mug closer to her hands, and waited until she wrapped her fingers around it. Heat. Proof. She stared at the mug for a long moment, then said, quietly:
“There’s something I haven’t said.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t move. “Do you want me to just listen, or do you want help finding words.”
She blinked rapidly, the kindness of that choice almost too much.
“Words,” she whispered.
“All right.”
She stared at the table.
“It’s... dangerous,” she said. I let that stand. I didn’t rush to contradict it.
“Then we treat it carefully.” Charli’s eyes flicked to mine. “We keep it small,” I continued. “We keep it private. You don’t have to take it outside. You don’t have to take it to your mum. You don’t have to take it anywhere you don’t feel safe.”
She swallowed hard.
“And you won’t—” she began.
“I won’t do anything with your words,” I said gently. “I won’t build a story around them. You tell me what you can. I’ll hold it with you.”
Her throat bobbed. “Okay.”
“Start with what you know.”
Charli’s voice came out rough.
“I know I don’t want ‘sir.’ Or ‘son.’”
The words made her look smaller, as if they were delivering an insult. I kept my tone soft.
“Then we don’t use those words.”
She sat silent for a while. Finally, she took in a breath.
“There’s a word that...” She stopped, cheeks warming with a misplaced chagrin. “There’s a word that feels... like it might fit.”
I heard my heart in my ears. I kept my face neutral and my voice gentle: this couldn’t be about into my reaction.
“What word?”
Charli stared at the tabletop like she was weighing danger. Then, so softly it was almost air:
“Girl.”
The word landed between us: fragile, delicate, breakable.
Charli glanced up at me—quick, terrified—and then looked away, braced for me to make it something. Anything. I didn’t. I let my voice warm instead.
“Okay.”
Her head jerked slightly, surprised. I softened further. “How does it feel when you say it?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to know what it means yet. Just what it does to you.” Her eyes shone. “Does it hurt,” I asked, quietly, “or does it help?”
Charli’s breath caught.
“It helps,” she whispered, and the admission looked like it cost her months. I nodded.
“Then it’s worth listening to.”
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. Something in my chest pulled hard. I hesitated—then asked, softly, like a courtesy and a vow in one:
“May I come closer?”
Charli blinked at me, then gave a quick nod. Tiny. Shy.I stood and moved around the table slowly, as if speed might frighten her. I didn’t touch her right away. I just sat beside her, close enough that she could feel I was there. Charli’s hands trembled around the mug.
“You’re not in trouble,” I murmured softly. “Not with me.” Her breath hitched again. She stared unseeing at her mug. “You’re allowed,” I said, gentle as silk, “to say the word that helps.”
Charli’s lips trembled. Then she whispered again, barely audible:
“Girl.”
I didn’t echo it back like a stamp. I answered it like an ally.
“Okay,” I said softly. “Yes. Girl.”
To hear the word coming from me seemed almost too much for her. She let out a sound that was almost a sob, and her shoulders shook. As tempted as I was, I didn’t pull her in: I didn’t claim her. Instead, I offered one hand on the table between us, palm up.
“If you want,” I said, “you can take my hand. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
Charli looked at my hand like it was something sacred. Then she placed her fingers into my palm.
Warm. Light. Real.
I closed my hand around hers—not tight, just enough to say I’ve got you—and kept my voice low.
“Tonight,” I said, “you don’t have to be brave in public. You can just be honest in here.”
Charli’s tears slid silently. She didn’t apologise for them.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to lose everyone.”
“You won’t lose me,” I said, immediate and simple. Then, softer: “And we’re not going to rush your words into places where they can be used against you. We do this step by step. Like the doctor said.”
Charli’s grip tightened slightly on my fingers. After a moment she whispered, “Can I say it again?” My throat tightened.
“Yes,” I said. “If you want.”
She breathed in, shaky, then let the word out like a small lantern in a dark room:
“Girl.”
Her eyes met mine. This time her eyes didn’t reflect fear or distress.
They said trust.
Notes26-01-25rv3¶
✨ Here ✨¶
✨ Here ✨
3rd Revsion
[26-01-29]
Scene 34 — “Here” (Celeste POV, past tense) — warmer revision 🌸
Home met us the way it always did: quietly.
The hallway smelled faintly of detergent and warm timber. The living room lamp cast a soft pool of light that didn’t demand anything of you. Even the fridge hum felt like background reassurance—life is still normal, you’re still in it.
Charli took her shoes off at the door, careful, as if she didn’t quite trust herself not to make a mess of the floor. She still had her tote on her shoulder. She stood there with it, not moving, like the day might collapse if she set it down.I didn’t say anything for a second. Then I stepped beside her, keeping my voice low.
“You’re home,” I said. “You did the hard part.”
Her breath left her in a small tremor. I nodded toward the kitchen.
“Come on. Tea. Water. Something in your stomach.”
She followed, because the bus ride home had already taught her that my steadiness wasn’t a trap. At the sink she washed her hands the way she always did: meticulous, thorough, almost ritual. I watched without comment, because that kind of care was one of the ways she kept herself intact.
I filled a glass and set it down.
“Drink,” I said, gently. “Just a few sips.”
She did. Small sips, obedient at first—then a longer one, like her body remembered it had permission to be looked after.
I put the kettle on.
The click and hiss of it felt like a signal to the room: we’re not in the clinic anymore. We’re not in the car anymore. We’re in a place where you don’t have to be brave in public. Charli sat at the table. She took the folded paper from the appointment and placed it on the table, squaring the paper’s edge to the table like she was aligning a seam, as if tidiness could keep it from being frightening.
I set toast down in front of her—plain, buttered, unambitious. Her eyes flicked to it, then to me. A question without words: Is it okay to need this?
“It’s okay,” I said, answering it. “Eat what you can.”
She took a bite. Chewed carefully. Swallowed like it cost her something. I sat opposite her. Not across like a judge. Across like someone who intended to stay.
The kettle whispered.
For a while we let silence do what silence can do when it’s safe: soften the edges. Then Charli spoke, staring into her tea mug like it might hold an answer.
“My mum said ‘Don’t,’” she whispered. I felt my chest tighten. “In the car,” she added. “When I started talking about the... future.” She paused, sighed. “She didn’t mean it like... she wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“No,” I said gently. “She wasn’t.”
Charli’s fingers pinched the edge of her sleeve.
“It still made me stop,” she admitted, shame creeping into it. Like stopping was a failure. I leaned forward slightly, careful not to crowd her.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Because when you’re scared, ‘don’t’ can sound like a door being slammed shut.” Charli looked up at me quickly, eyes bright. “I think she meant was,” I added, “don’t borrow pain that hasn’t happened.”
Charli swallowed. “It felt like... I wasn’t allowed to say the scary thing.”
“You’re allowed to say it here.” My voice warmed around the sentence. “You need to understand: she’s scared too.”
Her breath hitched.
“It’s different, here,” I repeated, not as a slogan, as a promise. “This house doesn’t punish honesty.”
Charli’s shoulders lowered a fraction, the tiniest exhale. The kettle clicked off. I poured the water, set the mug closer to her hands, and waited until she wrapped her fingers around it. Heat. Proof. She stared at the mug for a long moment, then said, quietly:
“There’s something I haven’t said.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t move. “Do you want me to just listen, or do you want help finding words.”
She blinked rapidly, the kindness of that choice almost too much.
“Words,” she whispered.
“All right.”
She stared at the table.
“It’s... dangerous,” she said. I let that stand. I didn’t rush to contradict it.
“Then we treat it carefully.” Charli’s eyes flicked to mine. “We keep it small,” I continued. “We keep it private. You don’t have to take it outside. You don’t have to take it to your mum. You don’t have to take it anywhere you don’t feel safe.”
She swallowed hard.
“And you won’t—” she began.
“I won’t do anything with your words,” I said. “You tell me what you can. I’ll hold it with you.”
Her throat bobbed. “Okay.”
“Start with what you know.”
Charli’s voice came out rough.
“I know I don’t want ‘sir.’ Or ‘son.’”
The words made her look smaller, as if they were delivering an insult. I kept my tone soft.
“Then we don’t use those words.”
She sat silent for a while. Finally, she took in a breath.
“There’s a word that...” She stopped, cheeks warming with a misplaced chagrin. “There’s a word that feels... like it might fit.”
I heard my heart in my ears. I kept my face neutral and just stayed there, steady as a table leg.
“What word?”
Charli stared at the tabletop like she was weighing danger. Then, so softly it was almost air:
“Girl.”
The word sat on the table between us. No fanfare. Just... present. Charli glanced up at me—quick, terrified—and then looked away, braced for me to make it something. Anything. I didn’t. I let my voice warm instead.
“Yes. Girl.”
Her head jerked slightly, surprised. I softened further. “How does it feel when you say it?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to know what it means yet. Just what it does to you.” Her eyes shone. “Does it hurt,” I asked, quietly, “or does it help?”
Charli’s breath caught.
“It helps,” she whispered, and the admission looked like it cost her months. I nodded.
“Then it’s worth listening to.”
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. Something in my chest pulled hard. I hesitated—then asked, softly, like a courtesy and a vow in one:
“May I come closer?”
Charli blinked at me, then gave a quick nod. Tiny. Shy.I stood and moved around the table slowly, as if speed might frighten her. I didn’t touch her right away. I just sat beside her, close enough that she could feel I was there. Charli’s hands trembled around the mug.
“You’re not in trouble,” I murmured softly. “Not with me.” Her breath hitched again. She stared unseeing at her mug. “You’re allowed,” I said, gentle as silk, “to say the word that helps.”
Charli’s lips trembled. Then she whispered again, barely audible:
“Girl.”
I didn’t echo it back like a stamp. I answered it like an ally.
“All right.” I nodded. “Girl.”
To hear the word coming from me seemed almost too much for her. She let out a sound that was almost a sob, and her shoulders shook. As tempted as I was, I didn’t pull her in: I didn’t claim her. Instead, I offered one hand on the table between us, palm up.
“If you want,” I said, “you can take my hand. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
Charli looked at my hand like it was something sacred. Then she placed her fingers into my palm.
Warm. Light. Real.
I closed my hand around hers: not tight, just enough to say I’ve got you. I saw her body soften, and something in me loosened, like I’d been holding my own breath and only just noticed.
“Tonight,” I said, “you don’t have to be brave in public. You can just be honest in here.”
Charli’s tears slid silently. She didn’t apologise for them.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to lose everyone.”
“You won’t lose me,” I said, immediate and simple. Then, softer: “And we’re not going to rush your words into places where they can be used against you. We do this step by step. Like the doctor said.”
Charli’s grip tightened slightly on my fingers. After a moment she whispered, “Can I say it again?” My throat tightened.
“Yes,” I said. “If you want.”
She breathed in, shaky, then let the word out like a small lantern in a dark room:
“Girl.”
Her eyes met mine. And for the first time all day, her eyes said she believed me.
They said trust.
Later, the apartment settled.
Not into silence exactly but into the soft domestic hum of an evening that had decided not to fall apart. The kettle cooled. The bench dried where I’d wiped it down. A neighbour’s footsteps passed once in the corridor, then faded. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed and the sound rolled away like a wave retreating.
Charli stayed at the table longer than she needed to, mug between her hands. Shoulders no longer up around her ears, but still held carefully, as if she didn’t quite trust the room not to change its mind. I didn’t push her out of the kitchen. I just started doing the next small things, because small things are how you keep the world lawful.
I rinsed the mugs. I packed away the toast plate. I set the pathology form and papers into a neat stack and placed them on the corner of the bench... contained. When I turned back, Charli was watching me.
Not that anxious quiver of lips, but with a quiet, almost grateful attention you give someone when you realise they’re not going anywhere.
“You don’t have to stay up to prove anything.”
Charli blinked. “I’m not— I wasn’t—”
“I know,” I said. “I’m not accusing you. I’m just... suggesting you rest.”
Her gaze dropped to her mug.
“I don’t sleep well,” she admitted. The sentence landed with a kind of abashment, as if bad sleep was another way she was failing. I kept my voice warm.“Right, then. So we don’t aim for perfect. We aim for better than last night.”
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. I nodded toward the hallway.
“Do you want a shower, or do you want to treat your skin gently and just change?”
Charli hesitated, then said softly, “Just change.”
“I’ll go put the heater on low in the bathroom anyway. Warm air helps, even if you don’t have a shower.”
Her eyes flicked up, surprised by the thoughtfulness. I walked to the bathroom and clicked it on. The little fan whirred to life, a modest, steady sound. When I came back, I kept my steps unhurried, as if the pace itself could teach safety. Charli stood slowly, tote strap still looped around her wrist like an anchor.
“You can leave that here,” I said, mindful of what had happened the last time she left her tote unattended. “Nothing is going to happen to it.”
Charli swallowed, then set it down by the chair without looking at me. A small surrender: trust. I held that trust, because it mattered. She headed to her room, then paused in the hallway as if she’d forgotten to tell me something.A minute later she returned in clean trackies and an old t-shirt that had seen too many washes. Her hair was brushed, contained. She looked younger—less put-together, less defended. She hovered at the edge of the living room.
I was on the couch with a folded blanket over my lap, not reading, not scrolling—just present. I looked up and patted the other end of the couch.
An offer.
“If you want,” I said. “You can sit there. We don’t have to talk.”
Charli’s throat moved. She nodded and sat, carefully, leaving a polite gap between us like she didn’t want to take up space she hadn’t earned. I let the gap be. For now. The lamp made a small warm circle. Outside, the streetlight threw pale bands across the curtains. After a long minute, Charli spoke without looking at me.
“Do you think I did something... crazy?”
My chest tightened.
“No,” I said immediately. “You did something unsafe. That’s different.”
Charli’s hands twisted in her lap.
“I didn’t want it to stop,” she whispered. Wardrobe. Her happy place. I didn’t correct her. I didn’t argue the logic. Not tonight.
“I know.”
She turned her face slightly, as if she wanted to look at me but couldn’t bear it.
“And now...” Her voice thinned. “Now it’s like everything is... watching.”
I nodded, slow. “It can feel like that.”
Charli swallowed. “Even you.”
That one hit. I kept my voice soft, honest.
“Yes,” I said, “because you matter, and because you’ve been alone in this for too long.”
She blinked rapidly, and the tears appeared again—quiet, unspectacular. I didn’t rush to fix it: I just... stayed. Charli wiped her cheek quickly with the back of her hand and bit her lip, glancing furtively at me.
“Would a hug help?”
Charli’s body went silent, her eyes wide, pleading.
“A hug,” she whispered. The words barely made it out, as if she dare not hope.
I shifted closer slowly, carefully, and opened my arms—not pulling her in, just making the option visible. Charli cautiously leaned into me with a wariness that broke my heart. Did she expect, at any second, to be told she was doing it wrong? I wrapped my arms around her and held her the way you hold someone you need to keep safe: firm enough to be real, gentle enough to breathe inside.
Charli made a small sound—half breath, half sob—and then her body softened against mine, like something stubbornly alive finally finding daylight. I kept my cheek near her hair, and I didn’t say anything for a moment, just letting the hug speak.
“You’re not alone.”
Her fingers gripped the fabric at my side for a second, then eased. A long minute passed. As her breathing steadied, I loosened the hug—enough to check in, not enough to abandon.
“Still okay?”
Charli nodded against my shoulder.
I held her a little longer, then released her slowly, like letting go was something you did with care. She stayed close, her shoulder still against mine. The gap she’d left when she sat down was gone.
Not because I’d taken it.
Because she’d crossed it.
I reached for the blanket and laid it over her legs, tucking it in lightly at the knee. Charli looked down at it, then up at me.
“You’re... nice,” she said, like it was a discovery and a risk. Something in me warmed painfully.
“I can be,” I said. “I just... don’t want you to mistake nice for a signal that you have to earn it by hurting yourself.”
Her mouth trembled, and she nodded. She had been living that sentence.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
I believed her—and I also knew she didn’t yet know what she’d do when terror returned. So I made a plan: small and survivable.
“Tonight,” I said, “we do one thing: sleep. That’s it. No solving your whole life.”
A tiny, fragile smile flickered.
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we do bloods,” I said. “We follow the plan, step by step. You don’t try to find your own solutions anymore. Deal?”
Charli swallowed. Then she nodded, small and sincere.“Deal.”
I reached for the glass of water on the coffee table and nudged it closer to her. She took it and drank. After a moment she spoke again, almost inaudible.
“Can I... stay out here for a bit.”
“You can,” I said. “As long as you want.”
She looked at the lamp, the blanket, the quiet room—like she was memorising the shape of safety. Then she leaned her head lightly against my shoulder. Not asking or performing: choosing.
I let my own breath out slowly, careful and steady. In the soft domestic hush, I realised something with a clarity that didn’t frighten me for once:
This wasn’t me losing discipline. It was me learning a better kind — the kind that could hold her without putting her into a cage.
The kind that could make a girl feel—maybe for the first time—that she didn’t have to be brave alone.
Notes26-01-25rp¶
✨ Here ✨¶
✨ Here ✨
[Published]
[celeste]
Home met us the way it always did: quietly.
The hallway smelled faintly of detergent and warm timber. The living room lamp cast a soft pool of light that didn’t demand anything of you. Even the fridge hum felt like background reassurance:
life is still normal, you’re still in it.
Charli took her shoes off at the door, carefully, as if she didn’t quite trust herself not to make a mess of the floor. She still had her tote on her shoulder. She stood there with it, not moving, like the day might collapse if she set it down. I didn’t say anything for a second. Then I stepped beside her, keeping my voice low.
“You’re home,” I said. “You did the hard part.”
Her breath left her in a small tremor. I nodded toward the kitchen.
“Come on. Tea. Water. Something in your stomach.”
She followed: the bus ride home had given her the assurance that my steadiness wasn’t a trap. At the sink she washed her hands the way she always did: meticulous, thorough, almost ritual. It was one of the ways she kept herself intact. I filled a glass and set it down.
“Drink,” I said, gently. “Just a few sips.”
She did. Small sips, obedient at first, then a longer one, like her body remembered it had permission to be looked after.
I put the kettle on.
The click and hiss of it felt like a signal to the room:
we’re not in the clinic anymore.We’re not in the car anymore.We’re in a place where you don’t have to be brave.
Charli sat at the table. She took the folded paper from the appointment and placed it on the table, squaring the paper’s edge to the table like she was aligning a seam, as if tidiness could keep it from being frightening.
I set toast down in front of her—plain, buttered, unambitious. Her eyes flicked to it, then to me.
“It’s okay,” I said, answering it. “Eat what you can.”
She took a bite. Chewed carefully. Swallowed like it cost her something. I sat opposite her. Not across like a judge: across like someone who intended to stay.
The kettle whispered.
For a while we let silence do what silence can do when it’s safe: soften the edges. Then Charli spoke, staring into her tea mug like it might hold an answer.
“My mum said ‘Don’t,’” she whispered. I felt my chest tighten. “In the car,” she added. “When I started talking about the... future.” She paused, sighed. “She didn’t mean it like... she wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“No,” I said gently. “She wasn’t.”
Charli’s fingers pinched the edge of her sleeve.
“It still made me stop,” she admitted. I leaned forward slightly, careful not to crowd her.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Because when you’re scared, ‘don’t’ can sound like a door being slammed shut.” Charli looked up at me quickly, eyes bright. “I think what she meant was,” I added, “don’t borrow pain that hasn’t happened.”
Charli swallowed. “It felt like... I wasn’t allowed to say the... scary thing.”
“You’re allowed to say it here.” My voice warmed around the sentence. “You need to understand: she’s scared too.”
Her breath hitched.
“It’s different, here,” I repeated, not as a slogan, as a promise. “This house doesn’t punish honesty.”
Charli’s shoulders lowered a fraction, the tiniest exhale. The kettle clicked off. I poured the water, set the mug closer to her hands, and waited until she wrapped her fingers around it. Heat. Proof. She stared at the mug for a long moment, then said, quietly:
“There’s something I haven’t said.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t move. “Do you want me to just listen, or do you want help finding words.”
She blinked rapidly, the kindness of that choice almost too much.
“Words,” she whispered.
“All right.”
She stared at the table.
“It’s... dangerous,” she began and stopped.
“Then we treat it carefully.”
Charli’s eyes flicked to mine.
“We keep it small,” I continued. “We keep it private. You don’t have to take it outside. You don’t have to take it to your mum. You don’t have to take it anywhere you don’t feel safe.”
She swallowed hard.
“And you won’t—.” She hesitated.
“I won’t do anything with your words,” I said. “You tell me what you can. I’ll hold it with you.”
Her throat bobbed. “Okay.”
“Start with what you know.”
Charli’s voice came out rough.
“I know I don’t want ‘sir.’ Or ‘son.’”
The words made her look smaller, as if they were delivering an insult. I kept my tone soft.
“Then we don’t use those words.”
She sat silent for a while. Finally, she took in a breath.
“There’s a word that...” She stopped, cheeks warming with a misplaced chagrin. “There’s a word that feels... like it might fit.”
I heard my heart in my ears. I kept my face neutral and just stayed there, steady as a table leg.
“What word?”
Charli stared at the tabletop like she was weighing danger. Then, so softly it was almost air:
“Girl.”
The word sat on the table between us. No fanfare. Just... present. Charli glanced up at me—quick, terrified—and then looked away, braced for me to make it something. Anything. I didn’t. I let my voice warm instead.
“Yes. Girl.”
Her head jerked slightly, surprised. I softened further.
“How does it feel when you say it?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “You don’t have to know what it means yet. Just what it does to you.” Her eyes shone. “Does it hurt,” I asked, quietly, “or does it help?”
Charli’s breath caught.
“It helps,” she whispered, and the admission looked like it cost her months. I nodded.
“Then it’s worth listening to.”
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. Something in my chest pulled hard. I hesitated—then asked, softly, like a courtesy and a vow in one:
“May I come closer?”
Charli blinked at me, then gave a quick nod. Tiny. Shy.I stood and moved around the table slowly, as if speed might frighten her. I didn’t touch her right away. I just sat beside her, close enough that she could feel I was there. Charli’s hands trembled around the mug.
“You’re not in trouble,” I murmured softly. “Not with me.”
Her breath hitched again. She stared unseeing before me, as if she didn’t dare look at me.
“You’re allowed,” I said, gentle as silk, “to say the word that helps.”
Charli’s lips trembled. Then she whispered again, barely audible:
“Girl.”
I didn’t echo it back like a stamp. I answered it like an ally.
“All right.” I nodded. “Girl.”
To hear the word coming from me seemed almost too much for her. She let out a sound that was almost a sob, and her shoulders shook. As tempted as I was, I didn’t pull her in: I didn’t claim her. Instead, I offered one hand on the table between us, palm up.
“If you want,” I said, “you can take my hand. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
Charli looked at my hand like it was something sacred. Then she placed her fingers into my palm.
Warm. Light. Real.
I closed my hand around hers: not tight, just enough to say I’ve got you. I saw her body soften, and something in me loosened, like I’d been holding my own breath and only just noticed.
Charli’s tears slid silently.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to lose everyone.”
“You won’t lose me,” I said, immediate and simple. Then, softer: “And we’re not going to rush your words into unfamiliar places. We do this step by step, like the doctor said.”
Charli’s grip tightened slightly on my fingers. After a moment she whispered, “Can I say it again?”
“Yes,” I said. “If you want.”
She breathed in, shaky, then let the word out like a small lantern in a dark room:
“Girl.”
Her eyes met mine. And for the first time all day, her eyes said she believed me.
They said trust.
Later, the apartment settled.
Not into silence exactly but into the soft domestic hum of an evening that had decided not to fall apart. The kettle cooled. The bench dried where I’d wiped it down. A neighbour’s footsteps passed in the corridor, then faded. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed and the sound rolled away like a wave retreating.
Charli stayed at the table longer than she needed to, mug between her hands. Shoulders no longer up around her ears, but still held carefully, as if she didn’t quite trust the room not to change its mind.
I started doing the next small things, because small things are how you keep the world lawful. I rinsed the mugs. I packed away the toast plate. I set the pathology form and papers into a neat stack and placed them on the corner of the bench... contained.
When I turned back, Charli was watching me. Not that anxious quiver of lips, but with a quiet, almost grateful attention you give someone when you realise they’re not going anywhere.
“You don’t have to stay up to prove anything.”
Charli blinked. “I’m not— I wasn’t—”
“I know,” I said. “I’m not accusing you. I’m just... suggesting you rest.”
Her gaze dropped to her mug.
“I don’t sleep well,” she admitted. The sentence emerged with a kind of abashment, as if bad sleep was another way she was failing. I kept my voice warm.“Right, then. So we don’t aim for perfect. We aim for better than last night.”
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. I nodded toward the hallway.
“Do you want a shower, or do you want to treat your skin gently and just change?”
Charli hesitated, then said softly, “Just change.”
“I’ll go put the heater on low in the bathroom anyway. Warm air helps, even if you don’t have a shower.”
I walked to the bathroom and clicked it on. The little fan whirred to life, a modest, steady sound. As I came back, I kept my steps unhurried, as if the pace itself could teach safety. Charli stood slowly, tote strap still looped around her wrist like an anchor.
“You can leave that here,” I said, mindful of what had happened the last time she left her tote unattended. “Nothing is going to happen to it.”
Charli swallowed, then set it down by the chair without looking at me. A small surrender: trust. I held that trust close: it mattered. She headed to her room, then paused in the hallway as if she’d forgotten to tell me something.A minute later she returned in clean trackies and an old t-shirt that had seen too many washes. Her hair was brushed, contained. She looked younger—less put-together, less defended. She hovered at the edge of the living room.
I was on the couch with a folded blanket over my lap, not reading, not scrolling—just present. I looked up and patted the other end of the couch.
An offer.
“If you want,” I said. “You can sit there. We don’t have to talk.”
Charli’s throat moved. She nodded and sat, carefully, leaving a polite gap between us like she didn’t want to take up space she hadn’t earned. I let the gap be, for now. The lamp made a small warm circle. Outside, the streetlight threw pale bands across the curtains. After a long minute, Charli spoke without looking at me.
“Do you think I did something... crazy?”
I pressed my lips together, then relaxed.
“No,” I said finally. “You did something unsafe. That’s different.”
Charli’s hands twisted in her lap.
“I didn’t want it to stop,” she whispered. Wardrobe. Her happy place. I didn’t correct her. I didn’t argue the logic. Not tonight.
“I know.”
She turned her face slightly, as if she wanted to look at me but couldn’t bear it.
“And now...” Her voice thinned. “Now it’s like everything is... watching.”
I nodded, slow. “It can feel like that.”
Charli swallowed. “Even you.”
That one hit. I kept my voice soft, honest.
“Yes,” I said, “because you matter, and because you’ve been alone in this for too long.”
She blinked rapidly, the tears welling in her eyes again—quiet, unspectacular. Charli wiped her cheek quickly with the back of her hand and bit her lip, glancing furtively at me. I didn’t rush to fix it: I just... stayed. Finally, I asked:
“Would a hug help?”
Charli’s body went silent, her eyes wide, pleading.
“A hug,” she whispered. The words barely made it out, as if she dare not hope.
I shifted closer slowly, carefully, and opened my arms—not pulling her in, just making the option visible. Charli cautiously leaned into me with a wariness that broke my heart. Did she expect, at any second, to be told she was doing it wrong? I wrapped my arms around her and held her the way you hold someone you need to keep safe: firm enough to be real, gentle enough to breathe inside.
Charli made a small sound—half breath, half sob—and then her body softened against mine, like something stubbornly alive finally finding daylight. I kept my cheek near her hair, and I didn’t say anything for a moment, just letting the hug speak.
“You’re not alone.”
Her fingers gripped the fabric at my side for a second, then eased. A long minute passed. As her breathing steadied, I loosened the hug—enough to check in, not enough to abandon.
“Still okay?”
Charli nodded against my shoulder.
I held her a little longer, then released her slowly, like letting go was something you did with care. She stayed close, her shoulder still against mine. The gap she’d left when she sat down was gone.
Not because I’d taken it.
Because she’d crossed it.
I reached for the blanket and laid it over her legs, tucking it in lightly at the knee. Charli looked down at it, then up at me.
“You’re... nice,” she said, like it was a discovery and a risk. Something in me warmed painfully.
“I can be,” I said. “I just... don’t want you to mistake nice for a signal that you have to earn it by hurting yourself.”
Her mouth trembled, and she nodded. She had been living that sentence.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
I believed her—and I also knew she didn’t yet know what she’d do when terror returned. So I made a plan: small and survivable.
“Tonight,” I said, “we do one thing: sleep. That’s it. No solving your whole life.”
A tiny, fragile smile flickered.
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we do bloods,” I said. “We follow the plan, step by step. And you don’t try to find your own solutions anymore. Deal?”
Charli swallowed. Then she nodded, small and sincere.“Deal.”
I reached for the glass of water on the coffee table and nudged it closer to her. She took it and drank. After a moment she spoke again, almost inaudible.
“Can I... stay out here for a bit.”
“You can,” I said. “As long as you want.”
She looked at the lamp, the blanket, the quiet room—like she was memorising the shape of safety. Then she leaned her head lightly against my shoulder. Not asking or performing: choosing.
I let my own breath out slowly, careful and steady. In the soft domestic hush, I realised something with a clarity that didn’t frighten me for once: This wasn’t me losing discipline. It was me learning a better kind — the kind that could hold her without putting her into a cage.
The kind that could make a girl feel—maybe for the first time—that she didn’t have to be brave alone.