Chapter One
I could hear my heart beating in my chest, as loud as a bass drum. I looked at the empty space by his cupboard where his worn black suitcase should’ve been.
This wasn’t happening.
I took a deep breath and shook my head. He was probably just at a friend’s and forgot to tell any-one, or turn on his phone, or leave a note. But that wasn’t Charlie.
He couldn’t have really done it. He wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t run. He’d stand firm and face whatever ailed him. Because that was my Charlie.
But then I saw it. I walked over to the dresser and picked up the heart-shaped pick. I gave it to him first year for a big gig he had coming up. It was red, heart-shaped and had my name and his written on either side in black script. The day I gave that to him was the day he first told me he loved me. That was the happiest da of my life. God I loved him.
He kept the pick in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘For luck’, he’d say with a wink.
He never went anywhere without that guitar pick. Not once.
In that moment, I knew that he wasn’t coming back. And it tore me apart.
My heart broke. Went into cardiac arrest. Stopped beating. Became nonexistent. My knees collapsed beneath me and I fell back onto the bed. His bed. The note floated to the ground. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest and torn into a million pieces. Like some-one had stabbed me with a knife and would not stop twisting. I willed myself not to cry. If I dared cry it would only mean that it was real.
That he left me. That he left every one. His family. His friends. Me.
I didn’t believe it. Not from the start. Not from when Mum got the call and told me with tears in her eyes.
Not from when I went to his house and saw Karen crying on the staircase, his favourite green shirt in her hands.
Not even from when I went into his room and his suitcase and half his clothes were gone.
But when I saw the guitar pick lying on the dresser, I believed.
I hugged my knees to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut. Natalie, don’t you dare cry. The pain in my chest was so severe, so gaping and jagged that crying wouldn’t have caused anything but more vicious and unjust pain. But I did.
I cried.
I could hear my heart beating in my chest, as loud as a bass drum. I looked at the empty space by his cupboard where his worn black suitcase should’ve been.
This wasn’t happening.
I took a deep breath and shook my head. He was probably just at a friend’s and forgot to tell any-one, or turn on his phone, or leave a note. But that wasn’t Charlie.
He couldn’t have really done it. He wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t run. He’d stand firm and face whatever ailed him. Because that was my Charlie.
But then I saw it. I walked over to the dresser and picked up the heart-shaped pick. I gave it to him first year for a big gig he had coming up. It was red, heart-shaped and had my name and his written on either side in black script. The day I gave that to him was the day he first told me he loved me. That was the happiest da of my life. God I loved him.
He kept the pick in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘For luck’, he’d say with a wink.
He never went anywhere without that guitar pick. Not once.
In that moment, I knew that he wasn’t coming back. And it tore me apart.
My heart broke. Went into cardiac arrest. Stopped beating. Became nonexistent. My knees collapsed beneath me and I fell back onto the bed. His bed. The note floated to the ground. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest and torn into a million pieces. Like some-one had stabbed me with a knife and would not stop twisting. I willed myself not to cry. If I dared cry it would only mean that it was real.
That he left me. That he left every one. His family. His friends. Me.
I didn’t believe it. Not from the start. Not from when Mum got the call and told me with tears in her eyes.
Not from when I went to his house and saw Karen crying on the staircase, his favourite green shirt in her hands.
Not even from when I went into his room and his suitcase and half his clothes were gone.
But when I saw the guitar pick lying on the dresser, I believed.
I hugged my knees to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut. Natalie, don’t you dare cry. The pain in my chest was so severe, so gaping and jagged that crying wouldn’t have caused anything but more vicious and unjust pain. But I did.
I cried.
