𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎? {𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗}

'ᴅᴇsɪʀᴇ,

"One more joke Dalton, and I'm gonna walk right out of here."

"Della, the man just said it would cost her a groaning to take off his edge after asking to rest on her lap," Charlie spoke between his hysterical laughter. "It's like he is handing me the jokes."

"Hamlet is a tragedy!" I dropped the notebook. "You're not supposed to find this funny."

He made a disappointed sound, "According to Mr. Keating, I'm allowed to find whatever I want. How do you know it isn't funny anyway?"

"Because!" I exclaimed, "Countless critics have said so. I have seen the play, I know it by heart, didn't they teach you this in school?"

"They did," He agreed. "But I have a mind of my own. Critics love to make everything dull, what if Shakespeare intended it to be bawdy? Hm?"

I wrapped my hands around myself, suddenly feeling defensive. I'm plenty capable of forming my own opinion. It felt like I was been undermined, and I had no idea how to react.

I bit my lip and started writing my essay. Writing might be a strong word, I was staring at it so violently that it might have burned the paper. The pencil threatened to break because of my intense grip, matching the burn in my eyes.

"Unclench."

The order came out of nowhere, too close to me. Startled, I let go of the pencil and looked back to find the source. Charlie was crouched right behind me with a different look on his face. One that wasn't joking anymore.

"I'm sorry." He breathed. "I don't... I won't pretend that I know how I hurt you. But I'll try to keep my mouth shut. Can we go back to Hamlet?"

He caressed my jaw and repeated, "Unclench."

"You don't have to keep your mouth shut," I unclenched my jaw as he asked. "And thanks for not pretending to know."

He made a sound to agree and signaled me to continue.

"I guess," I paused, trying to find the right words. "I guess I'm not as much of a free-thinker as I thought I was. But it's not fair on you to restrict yourself around me just because I haven't figured myself out."

"I'm sorry." I took his hand, feeling the curve of his knuckles. "Back to Hamlet, the comedic tragedy."

He laughed softly, and a shiver passed through me involuntarily. He felt it since my hand was still on his. He turned his hand to hold mine, focusing on my fingers as the laughter slowly faded.

His eyes stayed fixed on our hands while mine were glued onto him. He had the most gorgeous eyelashes. As soon as I thought it, he looked up at me through his lashes as if hearing my crazy musings.

"Elle?" He brushed his thumb on the back of my wrist. "Do you like Cameron?"

I almost pulled my hand back at the abrupt shift in the conversation. Swallowing my anxiety, I forced an answer out.

"Sure I do, he's a good friend."

He groaned and laughed, "You know that's not what I meant. C'mon. Do you like him in a, uh, romantic way?"

"Like is such a small word, why can't we use words like yearn, adore, or even desire," I rambled. My mouth refused to shut up, and it was driving my brain into a frenzy.

"Alright then," He interrupted. "So do you desire him?"

"Who, Cameron?"

Just say no, Della. It's the truth. Why are you stalling? What's the point?

Charlie pulled his hand away, and my hand stayed limp on the floor. He let out an exasperated breath and stood up.

"No!" I yelled, making him pause. He slowly lowered himself back down. "No, I don't like - desire him." I shuddered at the last part.