born to die

13

BORN TO DIE ── charlie mayhew.

It's late, and the house is quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in from all sides, making the air feel heavier. I've been lying in bed for hours now, staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing in circles about everything—about missing the food drive, about him, about how I can't seem to stop thinking about the way he looked at me that night at the diner.

I roll over, my phone resting on the nightstand, its screen dark. I told myself I wouldn't check it again. But the moment I think that, it lights up, buzzing softly against the wood. My heart skips, and when I see his name, Father Charlie, a mix of guilt and something else tugs at me.

I hesitate before answering, my hand shaking slightly as I press the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

There's a moment of silence, and then his voice comes through, warm and low, "Hey. I know it's late, but... I've been worried about you."

I swallow, suddenly feeling more awake than I have all day. "You didn't have to call," I murmur, though part of me is relieved that he did.

"I know," he says softly, "but I couldn't stop thinking about you. About why you didn't show up today. You seemed so eager to volunteer, and then... nothing."

His concern is there, and it makes my chest tighten. I don't know how to explain it—how to tell him that I didn't show up because he's part of the reason I'm so off. Instead, I sigh, sitting up in bed, clutching the blanket tighter around me.

"It wasn't anything serious," I lie. "I just... needed some space."

There's a pause, and I can almost hear him thinking on the other end of the line. "Space from what?"

I hesitate, biting my lip. "From everything, I guess. From my own thoughts. It's been... a lot."

"I get that," he says quietly. "Life can pile up on you sometimes."

I nod, even though he can't see me, a sense of relief washing over me at the fact that he isn't pressing me for more. The conversation lingers there, and I find myself surprised by how easy it is to talk to him like this. The weight of his title—Father Charlie—feels distant, almost irrelevant in this moment. Right now, it's just the two of us, talking.

"What about you?" I ask, surprising myself with the question. "How do you handle it? The pressure. All the... responsibility."

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and unexpected. "You mean, how do I keep from going crazy?" There's a pause before he answers, his voice quieter now. "Honestly, I don't always handle it well. There are days when it feels like too much, when I question everything. But then I remember why I chose this path. And that helps."

His honesty catches me off guard. I never imagined he'd admit to doubting anything—let alone his vocation. For some reason, it makes him seem more... human.

"You chose this life," I say, more to myself than to him. "That must've been a hard decision."

"It was," he admits. "But it also felt like the right one at the time."

"At the time?" I echo, sensing something in his words.

There's another pause, and I hear him sigh on the other end. "Yeah. It's... complicated, I guess. It's a calling, but that doesn't mean it's easy. There are moments when I wonder what it would've been like if I had made a different choice."

The vulnerability in his voice tugs at something deep inside me. I'd always seen him as someone that had it all figured out. But hearing him now, talking late at night, admitting to doubts—it makes me realize that he's just as unsure about life as I am.

"What would you have done?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't know," he says softly. "I think I would've liked to teach. Or maybe work with people in a different way. I've always liked getting to know people... helping them."

I smile slightly, resting my head against the pillow again, feeling strangely comforted by this side of him. "You do that now," I point out. "You help people."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "I try. But sometimes it feels like I'm not enough."

His words hang in the air, and I feel my heart squeeze at the thought of him carrying that kind of burden.

"You are enough," I say, surprising myself with the intensity of my words. "You're always there for everyone. You're always so... present."

There's a pause, and I wonder if I've said too much. But then he speaks again, and his voice is softer now, more personal. "Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you."

I feel my cheeks warm at his words, and I shift under the covers, not sure how to respond.

Another beat of silence passes, and then he clears his throat. "You know," he says, a little lighter now, "you don't have to call me Father Charlie all the time."

I blink, surprised. "What?"

"You can just call me Charlie," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "When we're not at church, at least. It feels... more natural."

I let out a small laugh, the sound surprising me. "Okay. Charlie."

Saying his name like that feels strange, like I'm crossing some invisible line. But at the same time, it feels right. Less formal, less distant.

There's a soft chuckle on the other end. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No," I say, smiling despite myself. "Not at all."

For a moment, we sit there in the quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the phone. I feel lighter somehow, like the tension that's been coiling inside me for weeks has loosened just a little. It's strange, talking to him like this, in the middle of the night, it feels intimate in a way I hadn't expected.

"Maybe we can talk again sometime," he says, his voice warm and steady. "If you ever need... someone to listen."

I nod, even though he can't see me, feeling a soft flutter in my chest at the thought. "I'd like that."

"Good," he says, his tone gentle. "Get some rest, okay?"

"You too, Charlie," I whisper, the name rolling off my tongue a little easier this time.

After we hang up, I lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, my heart still fluttering softly in my chest.

pull that dick out im not playing...