LinZhe
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It’s not even like Charles notices it much, anymore. Whatever it is – not really a gaping wound, but something poetic like that. Something left unattended; a puzzle with only two pieces left to place, or a song that cuts off before it is finished. Charles will be doing something mundane – flicking through the channels on the television, skimming an article, cleaning with the radio playing – and the thought is there again.
Charles can picture his face so clearly, every dip and plane and freckle, and yet when it appears like this, it’s a fragment, a picture through the mist. The hazy outline of a body and a smell that lingers but never quite reaches his nose and a flash of a memory from years ago.
or; Charles and Max meet at seventeen years old.
Bookmarked by LinZhe
09 Apr 2025