A Heartstopper Fanfiction Short Story: Jane.

Jane: A Heartstopper Short Story.

The call, when it comes, is expected and, weirdly, a relief. The waiting has been dreadful, but I would rather not have had the call come at all. Ever.

"The hospital rang," says a tense female voice. "They said we ought to go in as soon as we can."

I'm not sure what I say in reply, but I must have said something appropriate because she rings off without sounding surprised. But then her default tone is usually expressionless, unless it's tinged with irony or sarcasm, and she famously hates using the phone.

My watch reads 2.50 am.

Usually I sleep easily, yet tonight I haven't been able to settle and I've been sitting downstairs in the front room aimlessly trawling through endless television channels for something to watch. Literally there seem to be three choices; sharks, Hitler or aliens-built-the-pyramids conspiracy theories. But concerning my unusual sleeplessnes, do people have premonitions? Maybe? Probably one of those channels has a documentary about that showing right now.

I stir myself. Now I have to do something I've been dreading for months.

Charlie is asleep in our bed. We have fairy lights strung untidily around the head of the bed - I know, how gay, right? But Charlie liked the ones I had in my bedroom at Mum's house, so we brought them here when we moved in and they still work after all these years. The light from them spills across him. He looks beautiful to me, pale skinned, his face all cheekbones and dimples and all that dark curly hair beginning to show silver at the temples, but only a little, barely any lines on his face.

I so don't want to do this, but from what Tori said on the phone there's perhaps little time to spare.

I sit on the edge of the bed and breathe in deeply. He stirs a little as the mattress gives under my weight, but he doesn't wake. Bracing myself, I reach out and touch his cheek softly. "Charlie," I whisper. He stirs again. I really, really don't want to wake him but I have to. I repeat his name, loudly this time and he opens his eyes.

I can see in an instant that he knows why I'm there, on the edge of the bed, in the middle of the night. For a moment all I can see is a terrified little boy in the half-light. Then he exhales an almost inaudible "Oh."

3.15 am. We are in the car.

It's raining, Suitably apt, I think as a mental aside. We pass no other traffic, but I see a fox run across the gleaming empty road ahead before vanishing up the driveway of a large house, a flash of ginger in the headlights. Charlie has not spoken yet. Back at the house he had got up quickly, dragged on jeans and a large jumper, one of my jackets and his converse. I hugged him for a long moment, in the hallway, in silence. He let me hold him but he didn't hug me back, his arms hung limply at his side like he didn't have the energy to respond. I cried. He didn't.

And I cry quietly as I drive and all the while Charlie stares ahead, hardly blinking as though he is hypnotised by the lights of the street lamps we're passing or the vortex of water on the windscreen that clears and re-forms as the windscreen wipers do their work.

The hospital car park is a vast pool of black asphalt, shiny in the rain and the light cast from massive lamps that stand round the perimeter. I've never seen it so empty, and I suppose the vehicles that are there belong to staff. Or other visitors summoned to be with someone for whatever reason. I don't bother buying a ticket, it doesn't seem important enough to care about.

The woman at the desk in reception looks up from chatting to a security guard as Charlie follows me in.

"We got a call," I say.

She smiles gently. She knows it can't be good that we got a call, I think. " Know where you're going?" she asks.

I nod and suddenly wonder if my face is still wet from the tears in the car. Then weirdly I feel the urge to laugh; of course my face is wet, it's fucking pounding it down outside.