charlie

My name is Charlie Lawson. I'm twenty years old, built out of iron, stubbornness, and a whole lot of anger that I don't always know what to do with. The gym is my second home. I push myself until my muscles shake, until my lungs burn, until there's nothing left in me except the need to do one more rep. Maybe it's because lifting is the one thing I can control. Maybe I'm just too damn stubborn to know when enough is enough.

I've got a temper, too. Always have. I get frustrated easily, snap before I think, and sometimes let my anger speak louder than I ever intended. But there's one person I've never wanted to scare with it. One person I'd tear myself apart trying to protect, even if she never understood why.

.

My best friend. My girl. The sweetest damn person I've ever known, even if she'd probably argue with me until sunrise if I ever called her that.

She's a gym freak, somehow even worse than me. She pushes herself past every reasonable limit, treats exhaustion like a personal failure, and looks in the mirror like she's searching for something wrong. She wears her jeans, her boots, her fitted shirts, and carries herself like she doesn't realize how easily she catches my attention. She's gorgeous. Not just in the obvious ways, either. It's the way she cares about people when she barely has anything left to give, the way she tries to make everyone else feel wanted when she's convinced nobody could ever want her.

And God, I've tried telling her.

"You're perfect, you know that?"

She'll look away. Her shoulders will tense, her expression will go quiet, and suddenly it's like she's somewhere I can't follow. Like my words have hit a wall she's spent years building around herself. She doesn't believe me. Doesn't believe she's enough for anybody, not even me. And no matter how gently I say it, I can't seem to convince her that she doesn't have to earn the right to be loved.

She's been through more than someone her age ever should've had to endure. Her mom left after her older brother got caught up in substance use, and now, a month ago, we lost him, too. An overdose. One phone call, one unbearable reality, and a world that kept moving when hers had every reason to stop.

She doesn't talk about it much. Sometimes I catch her staring into absolutely nothing, and I wonder how much she's keeping locked behind those pretty eyes. Other times, she throws herself into the gym like she can outrun the grief. She works until her hands tremble, until she's so exhausted she can barely keep her eyes open.

I've watched her fall asleep standing up. I've watched her struggle to stay awake in the shower. Hell, she's even started nodding off behind the wheel with me sitting in the passenger seat, and that scared me more than I could ever explain. I won't let her drive when she's that tired anymore. I can't stand the thought of something happening to her when she's already lost so much.

So she's staying with me now, in my little suburban house. There's a spare room down the hall, but somehow, her boots end up by my front door, her things find their way into my bathroom, and her favorite spot on the couch has become the one place I automatically look whenever I walk into a room.

I don't mind. Not even a little.

But she does.

She thinks she's a burden. Thinks she's taking up too much space, eating too much food, asking for too much by simply existing under my roof. She's tried leaving before, slipping away like she thinks she's doing me some kind of favor. Every time, something inside my chest twists because she genuinely believes I'd be better off without her.

I wish she could see what I see.

The way the house feels less empty when she's in it. The way I catch myself listening for her footsteps. The way my anger settles when she sits beside me, even if neither of us says a word. She doesn't have to entertain me, smile for me, or pretend she's okay. She could sit in silence for a hundred years, and I'd still want her beside me.

Last night, I found her standing in the kitchen at some ridiculous hour, barely awake, wearing her jeans and fitted shirt, her boots abandoned by the back door. She was trying to convince me she was fine when she could hardly keep her eyes open.

I remember running a hand over my face, swallowing down the frustration because I knew she wasn't doing it to hurt me. She just didn't know how to stop.

"Sweetheart, look at me."

She wouldn't.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice.

"You don't have to prove anything to me, okay? Not with the weights, not by pretending you're fine, and not by trying to disappear every time you think you're too much."

Her face crumpled for half a second before she hid it. And that tiny glimpse of hurt nearly broke me.

I wanted to tell her that I was scared. That I missed the brother she'd lost, too, in my own way, because I'd watched what losing him had done to her. That I hated how she blamed herself for things she never could've controlled. That every time she pushed herself until she could barely stand, I felt helpless watching the person I cared about most treat herself like she was disposable.

Instead, I reached for her hand.

"You can stay, . As long as you need. You don't owe me a damn thing."

Because that's the thing about her. She thinks love is something you have to deserve. Something you earn by being useful, by being pretty enough, strong enough, easy enough to keep around.

And I'm going to spend as long as she'll let me showing her otherwise.

I'm Charlie Lawson. I'm twenty, I'm stubborn, I've got a temper that could use some work, and I'm absolutely terrible at admitting when something scares me.

But losing her?

That's the one thing I don't even want to imagine.