He’d never felt so consumed by a person until he met her.

She was everywhere from the very beginning. Her name, her voice, the way the left corner of her lips would tweak up higher than the right when she would smile. Whether he liked it or not, she was unavoidable.

Charlie still remembered that cold January afternoon when his best friend had introduced them in the little cafe down the road. She was late, as she always was, and it annoyed Charlie to no end. He had a writing piece due that night, and had no idea why James had even dragged him there. When he asked, James simply responded with a sly smile and a teasing “you’ll see”. It didn’t even occur to Charlie then that he was setting them up— no, he had far more to worry about than his dating life. It was getting harder and harder to become a successful writer in a world turning its back on the arts, and he needed a head start.

He’d fully prepared himself to come up with some excuse halfway through what he was sure would be a very lacklustre conversation, but all his plans were upturned the moment she walked in, cheeks red from the biting cold. Maybe it was the way she hugged him immediately, or her half-painted nails, or her stupid I SAW GOODY PROCTOR WITH THE DEVIL! t-shirt, but he stayed. He stayed the whole time they sat in that coffee shop, and even stayed when James left to catch the bus back and the obligation to be polite had faded away into background noise. Millie had met James in their Literature 101 class, and they had quickly grown close when he realised that he was going to need help if he didn’t want to fail miserably. Millie would laugh and claim that she only helped James because he would not stop annoying her whenever Charlie brought it up, but he knew that she’d done it from the kindness in her heart. Millie could never stand aside when someone was in trouble. She was that sickening type of person that was just always good. 

Even now, Charlie couldn’t help but admire it. The only reason he was even sitting at his desk with his untouched lunch writing this book he’s been working on for so long is because she’d encouraged him to finally set some time outside of the publishing house to pursue his dream. It was the only night off she’d had from the rising success of her own book, and instead of spending the night with her boyfriend who loved her and supported her, she’d spent it with her boyfriend that loved her but needed to get his mind straight. And she’d respected it. She was that good.

So good, that she had come to him first. 

Sometimes he wishes that she hadn’t. That she had just left instead. Or lied to him. Or cheated on him. Then at least he’d have a reason to hate her.

But she had. And he didn’t. It wasn’t just her— James, too. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. He’d tried when they sat him down and told him everything— how a couple of years too late, they had realised that they loved each other. He’d tried when he’d seen the look of guilt on Millie’s face when she struggled to explain where that would leave him, her boyfriend, and how she still cared about him. He’d tried when she’d shown up one final time to their apartment to grab the last of her boxes so James could drive her to her new home. No matter what, he just couldn’t.

He pushed the pen away from him. Charlie never really liked typing, he felt like it completely ruined the charm of writing. He appreciated the weight of the pen between his fingers, the scratch of the ink on the paper— it was comforting. Millie never understood that; she was always religiously hammering away on her laptop. Rings of condensation from her late night coffees bore their mark on his desk, dizzying in the image of her that would come to mind. James had the inconvenient habit of choosing to come over on those types of nights (which usually happened at least three times a week). Millie would spare a few minutes, and the three of them would reminisce on their college days with a couple of boxes of Chinese takeaway on the floor of their living room, Millie picking out the chillies from Charlie’s food because she knew just how much he hated them.

Charlie couldn’t stand being at his desk any longer. The words simply wouldn’t come out, and he had spent far too much time forcing them. He pulled on his coat— the collar stained faintly with lipstick— and yanked it off immediately. It being his only one, he grabbed a thick sweater and simply hoped for the best.

It definitely wasn’t enough, he realised as he left the apartment. It was not a good day for Seattle. The snow— usually a light, fresh powder— had quickly lost its charm. It had reduced to a grayish sludge that squelched below his feet as he traipsed through the cold. He gritted his teeth as he tried to endure the weather, determined to continue walking. It was only when he realised that this little adventure was doing nothing to clear his mind that he succumbed to basic human instinct and rushed into the first warm place he could find. 

The coffee shop was bustling with life when he walked in, contrasting the drudgery of the landscape outside. He welcomed the hum of chatter and the bittersweet arome of the coffee beans; for a little bit they seemed to cut through the gray film he felt had covered the rest of his life. The cappuccino he ordered between his trembling hands almost soothed him as he found a seat in the booth he managed to snag. He closed his eyes, willing the hollowness of his chest to somehow fade away.

“Charlie.”

He knew that voice like no one elses. It was the foreground of every one of his best childhood memories. Soiled sneakers, green grass— but each image seemed to crumble between his fingertips now. He pried open his eyelids.

“Hey.”

James stood hesitantly in front of him. He was in a suit, clearly just on a break from work. He couldn’t meet Charlie’s eye. “Can I sit?”

He took Charlie’s lack of response as affirmation, sliding into the seat opposite him. Charlie could tell he was tense by the way he chewed the right corner of his bottom lip. It was what gave him away the time he stole Charlie’s prize Hot Wheels car when he was eight, and what gave him away when he and Millie told him they needed to talk to him just months ago.

The silence between them thrummed with everything left between them. There were thousands of words that came to Charlie’s mind— not all of them good— fighting for space on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he swallowed them away and settled on “what are you doing here.”

“Truthfully, I’m on a break,” James forced a laugh, before finally catching a glimpse of Charlie’s face. “But you already knew that. But Charlie, really, I wanted to talk to you.”

In a futile attempt to remain stoic, he responded curtly. “What about?”

He knew what about. They both knew, and they’d be lying to themselves if they denied it. But in this case, lying was far easier than telling the truth. “How’s your book going?” James blurted out.

“Pretty bad, James.”

James faltered at that, eyes cowering away down to his coffee that sat lonely on the table in front of him. Americano, oat milk, one shot of vanilla. “How come?”

Because Millie was the only reason I started writing seriously in the first place. And now she’s gone, and I don’t know what to do.

But Charlie couldn’t say that. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably in the silence he left in his wake. He wanted to be mad at him too. He really did, but in so many ways losing James had been almost as bad as losing Millie. James was the first person outside his family he had remembered ever loving, and James was the person who had always been by his side through his life. Though Millie had only been there for five years, James had been there since the very beginning. He’d introduced him to Millie— undoubtedly what was the best part of his life— and the three of them had remained his support system the years following. After leaving home, they were everything he knew for so long and in an instant, they were both gone. And the loss of James— years of muffled laughter and vivid imaginations— seemed to tear out a piece of his heart as well.

Charlie almost took pity on him, seeing him fumble in front of him. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, but the bitter taste returned to his mouth upon catching sight of James’s hands.

There, winking mockingly at him from his pinkie finger, was the gleam of bright green. An emerald set in silver gleamed coldly under warm lights of the coffee shop and Charlie’s heart almost stopped. It was Millie’s ring. He’d worn it before James, on the very same finger. As if suddenly remembering it was there, James covered it quickly with his other hand, but it was too late.

“Charlie—”

“I’ve got to go. Now’s not a good time, James.”

Just as Charlie had readied himself to leave, James spoke up. “Now, or ever?”

Charlie stopped in his tracks and looked at his former best friend incredulously. “Well what the hell do you want me to say?”

“I just—” he shook his head. “—I just want to talk to you. I haven’t spoken to you in so long.”

“That’s because I’ve been avoiding you.”

“I know. And I understand. But Charlie— we have to talk about this sometime.”

“No,” he stood up abruptly. “We don’t.”

He didn’t know why he was acting like this. It wasn’t James’s fault, after all. He couldn’t help his feelings and Charlie knew that this was the last thing that James had wanted to happen. James would never intentionally hurt him; he could see the guilt in the creases on his forehead. But rational thought was not at the forefront of Charlie’s mind right now.

“Charlie—”

“Just leave me alone, James.”

“I don’t want this to ruin us. You’re my best friend.”

He almost turned around. Almost.

“I have a book that’s not writing itself.”

With that, he took off, leaving behind his coffee and that little part of his heart.

---

Sometimes he wished the book would write itself.

It’s not that he didn’t like writing— he loved it— but he’d been working on this for so long. The hours were waning away, and he had been sitting at his desk ever since he got back from the encounter with James. His eyes hurt from endlessly reading over his already written sentences, hating each word more and more with every pass over. It was never this hard. Millie had always been the one who got him out of any writer’s block— whether it be through writing exercises, a new song that she’d heard on the radio the other day, or even just him rereading her work. She was the inspiration for many of his own characters, simply because she was the most prominent person in his life. He had to actively try to extract parts of her from his work.

Charlie pulled at his hair, the action sending sharp spikes of pain through his scalp and it was the most he had felt in a while. He pressed his pen to the paper and lifted it again. A blotch of ink had formed from him repeating that action over and over again, seeping into the wood of the table to join the rings of condensation. It’s like he had forgotten how to write. The one thing that he’d thought was truly his wasn’t, and it never had been. His words had all belonged to someone else, and without them he didn’t know who he was anymore.

In a fit of frustration he threw the pen across the room. If Millie was here, she’d yell at him for the pen mark on the wall, despite her being the messiest person he knew. Charlie stood up, mind so loud in a dizzying array of thoughts that he couldn’t distinguish a single syllable, much less any intention behind his actions. He’d always been able to live and let go, why couldn’t he now?

Midnight had crept upon him when the doorbell rang. Shrill and demanding, Charlie didn’t think twice as he went to open it. When it swung open, his heart sank.

“Hi,” she managed to say. Wide-eyed and clearly shivering from the cold, Millie stood in front of him in the largest, stupidest coat he’s ever seen (and used to endlessly make fun of) and paper bag clutched tightly in her grasp, knuckles white from the cold.

He hated that he didn’t hesitate a second before he let her in, concern washing over him. Growing up in California, she wasn’t very good with temperatures below freezing.

“Millie,” it was the first time he’d said her name out loud in months, but it didn’t feel foreign. “What are you doing?”

Her eyes darted away bashfully. She stood in the middle of the living room as if she were uncomfortable— rigid and shoulders taut— as if she hadn’t designed the layout herself. “I know you talked to James today.”

Straightforward. That’s one of the things he loved about her. “He told you.”

“Of course he told me, Charlie,” she said softly and just the sound of his name coming from her lips made him want to break. “He also told me that you’ve been struggling with writing recently.”

When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “And I know that when you get stressed, you forget to eat. So I brought you this.” She set the paper bag down on the coffee table. Chinese food.

It felt like she’d found a hammer and taken a blow to his chest. “What are you doing?”

“I already told you, I—”

“You know what I mean, Millie. We’re not together anymore—” the words got caught in his throat, “—you can’t just do stuff like that.”

It was her turn to fall silent. In that moment, he watched her look down at her feet, scuffing them on the hardwood. Her shoes were still on and she was trailing water into the house but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, finally shutting the door. “You just can’t.”

Because it hurts even more like this.

“I still care about you, Charlie,” she expressed. She looked so forlorn and out of place that it made his heart hurt. “No matter what.”

“Don’t say that,” his tone was stern for the most part, but the end of the sentence sank into pleading. “You can’t still care about me.”

“You’re my closest friend. You know that. Of course I care about you.”

Friend. Friend. Friend.

“We can’t be. Friends.” The words were harsh, cutting through the air. In that instant, Millie's face fell and Charlie despised that he felt bad. “Come on, Millie,” he said, softer now. “How can I ever be just friends with you again?”

“Of course we can be. We’ve been through so much.” She stepped towards him and Charlie winced. “There’s nothing that we can’t get through. The three of us.”

He shook his head, blood beginning to boil. “This isn’t like everything else.”

“Of course it is—”

“No it’s not!” he snapped. “Stop pretending like nothing’s happened!”

He knew it was hypocritical, seeing how he’d bitterly brushed off James’s attempts to talk to him and yet demanded the opposite of Millie. But finally, he was angry.

“I’m sorry,” she said steadily. “I understand how you feel—”

“Why do you both keep saying that?” Charlie demanded. “No you don’t. You didn’t lose your best friend and the girl you love in the matter of hours, when it wasn’t even your  fault in the first place!”

Instead of speaking, Millie simply nodded, giving him the go ahead.

“You’re not the one who has to watch the two most important people in your life leave you behind and watch them be happy without you! You’re not the one who's been completely torn apart! You’re not the one who feels like he doesn’t even know himself anymore because for the past few years all he’s known is you!” Charlie couldn’t stop the tears that were streaming down his face as his voice cracked. “You just don’t know.”

With that, he crumpled into the couch, head in his hands. Each sob convulsed through his body and it hurt. It hurt like nothing had ever hurt him before. He’d felt like he’d wasted so much of his love and his life on two people— one of whom couldn’t even love him the way that he loved her. And the betrayal he felt from the both of them. It wasn’t their fault— they were just two people who wanted to be in love and had been perfectly respectful in telling him— but sometimes there were just some things that all the respect in the world couldn’t justify.

He looked at her, all messy hair and blown out eyes. She’d perched on the couch next to him, clearly unsure of herself and that was perhaps what hurt the most. That they were no longer Charlie and Millie, Millie and Charlie, instead just two strangers sitting together in a room yet world’s apart. It took all his willpower not to fall into her arms right then.

He didn’t have to. She took one look at his face, shattered beyond repair, and she immediately shuffled forward and wrapped her arms around him. Millie held him tightly, the same way he had dreamed of.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Charlie.” Millie repeated it like a mantra, until he was sure he could know the words— all the lilts and tremors— off by heart. He pulled her close, grateful to feel her beneath his fingers again, though he knew it would never be the same again.

He could feel her heart racing, her tears beginning to soak the collar of his t-shirt. Millie was evidently broken, and it killed him. He pulled away quickly.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry I can’t love you the way I used to. Because I did.”

He knew. “I know.”

“But I do love you, Charlie. And I miss you. More than anything.” She hastily wiped the tears from her eyes. “And I know it’s so selfish of me to ask, because it’s all my fault, but please please don’t leave us.”

The remnants of the anger in him wanted to protest that she left him but he knew it wasn’t true. Millie had never wanted to leave him. Just assume a different role. She didn't leave him. Like James, she was such a big part of him that she couldn’t leave him, no matter how hard he tried. He needed her, like he needed James, like they all needed each other.

“I won’t,” he finally replied, his heart flooding with a certain warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time. “I’m not.”

The smile on Millie’s face that shone back at him was worth everything. She positively beamed, covering her cheeks with her hands, the way she’d do when she was overwhelmingly happy. “Charlie— thank you.”

“But you have to understand that it’s going to take time for me,” he cautioned. “This is something that can just happen. You know that.”

She nodded. “I do. Anything, Charlie.” She leaned up and hugged him again, and Charlie noticed that it wasn’t his cologne that she smelt like anymore. As much as it hurt, it was just something he had to accept.

They spent the rest of the night right there, curled up on the couch. They didn’t talk about their lives, or work, or the news. They didn’t even talk about the pen mark on the wall, or the new ink stain amongst the rings of condensation on the desk. They spoke about snow, and I SAW GOODY PROCTOR WITH THE DEVIL! t-shirts, and books. There, in his shabby little living room with Millie picking the chillis out of his Chinese food, for the first time in months, Charlie felt something but empty.

The next time he sat down to write, he didn’t have so much trouble. The words were clunky and didn’t quite fit together right, but they were getting there.