born to die

21

BORN TO DIE ── charlie mayhew.

The next morning, I decide to head to church earlier than usual, hoping for a quiet moment before the service starts. As I slip into a pew near the middle.

The service begins, with the hum of familiar prayers and hymns filling the air. I've come to think of Sundays here as my place of peace. Still, today feels different, a bit unsettling, and I know why.

I'm sitting beside Nicholas, the new volunteer from the food drive. As I catch a glimpse of Father Charlie up at the pulpit, something feels off. There's a flicker in his gaze, a tension in his jaw, the same look from yesterday. His words flow smoothly as always, the warmth in his voice steady and practiced, but every now and then, his gaze lands on me. Or, more precisely, on Nicholas beside me. Each time, his expression shifts ever so slightly, a flash of something I can't quite name. It's subtle, hidden beneath his calm demeanor, but I can feel it.

As the service ends and the last of the congregation filters out of the church I stand to leave, but just as I turn toward the door, I hear a familiar voice call my name from across the sanctuary.

"y/n, Would you mind staying for a moment?" he asks, his voice low and steady and when I turn, he's standing near the front, gesturing for me to come over.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and I walk back toward him. The sanctuary feels quieter than usual, with just the two of us surrounded by the soft glow filtering in from the stained-glass windows. He offers a gentle smile, looking a little more relaxed now that the crowds have gone.

"Thank you for staying," he says. "I wanted to show you something.

He leads me down a winding hallway toward the back of the church, past rooms and doors I'd never noticed before. Eventually, we come to an old, creaky door that he pushes open gently, and I step through, following him outside.

Beyond the door lies a small, secluded courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls covered in ivy. The courtyard is shaded, with sunlight filtering down through the leaves, casting soft patterns on the ground. A few flowers bloom along the edges, and there's a stone bench in the center. It feels like stepping into another world— a quiet, hidden sanctuary within the church's walls.

"Not many people know about this place," he says, his voice low as he looks around. "I come here sometimes when I need to clear my head."

I breathe in the peacefulness, feeling like I've been let into a special part of his world. "It's beautiful," I whisper, sitting down on the stone bench and taking it all in.

Charlie sits beside me, leaving just a hint of space between us. The silence stretches, but it's comfortable, wrapped in the soft hum of the breeze and the distant sound of birds. I can feel his presence beside me— yet somehow different in this quiet, intimate space.

"You always look so at peace during mass" he says, looking over at me.

I smile, realizing he's right, the church has become a place of security for me. "Yeah I think... I'm starting to find my place here," I admit, my voice softer than usual. "It feels good."

He nods, his eyes lingering on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. "I'm glad. I knew you would."

I feel my breath catch, the space between us suddenly seeming smaller. I'm all too aware of how close he is, of the warmth radiating from him in the cool, shaded air. I want to tell myself it's nothing—that it's just a quiet moment between friends—but the way his gaze holds mine feels like something more, something that neither of us are willing to name.

I shift slightly, my hand brushing against his on the bench. The touch is light, unintentional, but his hand remains there, his fingers brushing mine. He doesn't move away, and neither do I.

"Charlie..." I whisper, barely trusting my own voice. I can feel the weight of the boundaries we've both tried so hard to set, the lines we've both drawn. And yet, in this moment, I wonder if those lines are enough to keep us apart.

He takes a slow breath, his eyes never leaving mine. "Sometimes, I wonder..." he begins softly, his voice trailing off as if he's searching for the right words.

I don't respond, afraid that if I say anything, Instead, I let my hand rest against his, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips. There's a part of me that knows that this can only complicate everything, but I can't bring myself to pull away.

His gaze drops to our hands, and his fingers curl ever so slightly, almost instinctively, around mine. The touch is soft, hesitant, as if he's testing the waters, waiting for me to give him a sign.

But I don't pull away. I let my fingers stay intertwined with his, feeling my heartbeat quicken as the reality of our closeness sinks in.

"I don't want to make things harder for you," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "But... There's things I want to say to you"

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if weighing his own thoughts. "Me too," he murmurs, his hand squeezing mine gently.

We sit in silence, each of us holding back words that feel too big, too heavy for a moment as delicate as this. And yet, as we sit there, our hands intertwined, I feel a quiet certainty that, whatever this is, it's real. It's something we've both been trying to deny, something that's been growing, slow and steady.

Eventually, he releases my hand, the warmth of his touch lingering even as he pulls back.

"You make things difficult for me—," he says softly, his voice filled with a tenderness that wraps around me, "You know that?."

I nod, "I know."