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It looks cold outside. The trees are yet to sprout leaves, still and naked on the concrete pavement. The other flats across the street are sound asleep, beige curtains drawn against the breaking of day. It’s been snowing recently; piles of it lie strewn across the roads, trampled and reduced to icy mush.
But still, they glisten. Faint sunlight pierces through the heavy cloud cover.
While slightly different every day, whether it was the colour of the sky or the sight of pigeons on the windowsill, it was a familiar sight. By now, there's a comfort in its reliability; the view that greets Charles the next morning in his living room, no matter what happened the night before.
He gazes at it as he sits down and starts to eat. Cornflakes, served by himself in a plastic bowl with the spoon he used to stir tea with. Perhaps it’d be nice if he still had a roommate.
It's January again. In 2026.
It's strange, he thinks, that the last three hundred and sixty-five days of his life were gone, wrenched out of his hands and wrapped up in what was called a year, reduced to only a number. As if they could ever be condensed into that, for his future self to look back on and laugh at with friends as they sipped on jugs of beer at a pub. And that was probably sooner than he realised; trapped in this cyclical reality that disguised itself as a purpose. The holidays were basically over—he hadn’t thought they’d pass so quickly alone in the city. Soon he’d go back to school, and go through all the same classes again till next year.
But still, the year was gone, and there was nothing he could do. Cars had started to drive by on the roads below him, stopping at the traffic light before turning out of sight.
He gets up from the table and stalks to the kitchen, even though his bowl of cornflakes was still half full; they’d formed a pile at the bottom, and milk washed over it in a wave as he set it down in the sink. It's wrong to waste food, but he hasn't had much of an appetite for a year. In fact, he isn't sure why he’d eaten in the first place. Usually, he didn’t have breakfast. Not anymore.
-
It’s his first New Year’s as a university student. The novelty of being away from home is still there, but it wasn’t enough to compensate for Charles’s lack of interest in normal university things. It’s funny. An alcoholic’s kids either hate it or… are even worse. He’d promised himself he’d be the former. He’d seen the latter in the common room, already blurry-eyed and too loud at three in the afternoon. It makes his skin prickle.
Still, it’s New Year’s. His roommate Carlos, who was all cheer, drags him to a party with a dozen texts and a final in-person plea.
As they walk through the streets of London, he can’t deny it’s nice. Something about the city and its pretty buildings, its, well, usually green trees. Not to mention the size of it, like a whole new world for Charles to get lost in. The cold air was almost numbing.
The party was loud. The walls seem to beat from the outside. Carlos pulls Charles into the dark room, laughing, into a hypnotic swirl of colourful lights and dancing people. It was bright, painfully so, after the dark street.
Charles wants the street back. He feels lost within this sea of people, and the crowd pushes him further into the room.
“You look bored.”
Charles turns. The guy has to raise his voice, but it’s still lower than the rest of the noise. He has brown hair, a little tousled, and his eyes are a clear, bright blue. He holds a plastic cup and stands slumped in the doorframe with a practised confidence Charles so conspicuously lacks.
“Just… taking it in,” He calls back.
The guy nods, as if it makes perfect sense. He jerks his head towards the slightly quieter kitchen. “It’s marginally less awful in here. ”
In the kitchen, the music is a dull throb. The guy asks him where he’s from, not his hometown, but his university. “Imperial,” Charles says.
“LSE,” The guy replies, then grins. “I’m George.”
George, Charles thinks. It’s a nice name. It rolls off his tongue smoothly.
He only then realises the real George is still slumped in front of him, now gazing at him with a gleam in his eye. Charles’s eyes dart left, then right, before he opens his mouth.
“My name is… Charles.”
A grin curls across George’s face. “I like that name.”
They talk for the rest of the night. It was easy in a way that feels new to Charles. George is studying Social Policy. He’s from King’s Lynn. He thinks London’s brilliant but also a bit of a liar. Charles found himself talking about engineering, not really as a degree, but as a way of making things stay together. It was a thought he’d never managed to say out loud before.
When the countdown begins, they’re in a corner by the back door. The shouts of “Three! Two! One!” erupt, yet just look at each other, smiling stupidly. Charles is where he wants to be, and something told him George was too.
It’s 2025. They exchange numbers when the party spills onto the street at 2 in the morning. Their breaths mingle in the freezing air, and the numbers type into phones with clumsy, cold fingers.
-
Something was drawing him outside; perhaps it was the sun—after all, it was so rare. The slightest rays shining into his apartment were enough to lure him out of his cave; he felt like a plant. No need to mention that he needed to break free, from his apartment and himself and his stupid mind.
The streets are as busy as London usually is in the morning; people pass by, but not the point of bumping elbows, and he’s able to carry out his journey without disturbance. Some looked like they had somewhere to be; others seemed to enjoy the daylight.
It’s interesting, he thinks, because it’s only January 2nd. Yet somehow the holidays were simply over; maybe he’d just never paid attention to the presence of retail jobs. It’s high time he broke out of his little shell and put himself out there as a barista in a cafe, but it’s more of an indication of how much time he spent on his coursework.
He’s arrived at his destination, and he slips into the park. It’s the same as it always is—Charles still isn’t sure why he expects something else. Frost creeps up at the edges where the grass and the pavement meet, but all in all, its charm is retained. The sound of children’s laughter sounds faintly in the distance.
There are many trees scattered around, and they all stand firm and proud, even if their leaves have been taken for the time being. People liked to sit and lean against them—sometimes, Charles saw girls around his age propped up against an oak with a book he’d never heard of. He couldn’t replicate them, not him, not now. He just wasn’t one to do so, and his jeans would get wet. So he sits on a bench, perched on it for a few seconds before he finally leans back.
The air is crisp, moreso than it usually is, with undertones of greenery from the park. It’s almost intoxicating, numbing his mouth and lungs with every breath. He hadn’t minded the streets; they were comforting in their own way, with coffee shops and cheerful people on every block, but here was better. Walls had ears, but what happened stayed out here.
It’s never truly empty, but there aren’t many people today. Charles isn’t surprised—in fact, he was expecting it. He’s not even sure why he’s there himself; he’d spontaneously left his flat wearing uneven socks. But it was nice to have time out—he’d already spent a worthy amount of time in his flat studying. The hum of movement around him is refreshing, like little beats of life he didn’t have in his own. Pigeons flutter around the trees, and leaves gently scatter across the field. On it, indentations of footsteps carve their way through the snow. Maybe there’s a ghost waiting for him here.
He traces the footstep’s mysterious pathway, watching it loop around and eventually hit the pavement. He looks up, and for a second he isn’t sure why he followed them in the first place—but there’s a figure standing there, and before Charles can register, it turns around.
There had been a ghost here, after all.
-
It’s an evening in late January. The streetlamps have just flickered on, casting long, skeletal shadows from the trees. They’ve been walking for an hour, talking about nothing and everything, their shoulders brushing every few steps. George stops by the big oak near the north gate.
“It’s colder now,” he says, stating the obvious.
“Yeah,” Charles replies.
George turns to him. Half is face glows orange, the other half is in shadow. The playful glint was gone from his eyes, replaced by something more serious and searching. He doesn’t ask, but he leans in slowly, giving Charles every chance to turn away. For the first time, Charles doesn’t, and meets him in the middle.
The kiss is soft. Hesitant at first, then surer. George’s lips are warm despite the cold, and he tastes faintly of the black tea he likes to drink. Charles’s hands found their way to the rough wool of George’s scarf, and it laced through his fingers.
They pull away eventually. Charles looks at George, and they slowly begin to spin until they’re both laughing hysterically like children. They stop, still stumbling a bit, and George collapses into Charles’s, burying his face in his shoulder.
“That was nice,” he sighs. Charles can almost imagine the smile on George’s face, and he feels one touching his own lips.
“Yeah,” he replies, “It was.”
-
George spots him from across the field.
At first, they sort of both stop, freeze, even though neither of them were moving before. It’s the moment their eyes connect.
He seems to move on impulse, striding across the snowy field as Charles feels himself rise to his feet. For a second He’s afraid he isn’t real, like he’ll evaporate into thin air the moment he looks elsewhere. George stops just short of reaching him.
He looks the same, Charles thinks, as if he’s been frozen in time since the day he left. His brown hair, blue eyes; if anything, he’d gotten thinner. But still, he’s George. Charles isn’t sure if he could say the same about himself.
He breaks the silence first.
“Charles.”
Before he can say anything else, Charles yanks him into a tight embrace. George twitches, and for a fleeting moment Charles feels like he’s going to pull away—but he doesn’t.
Charles is the one who breaks it off first. “George,” he gasps. He has more words—relief, rage, something else—but they all die in his throat as he takes shaky breath after shaky breath.
He’s really here. The almost seven months of agony threaten to spill over at the sight of him.
It takes a moment, but George squeezes back. “It’s good to see you,” he says lightly.
There’s so much that’s unsaid, but it would take too much time to say it all.
-
The room’s a testament to his disintegration. Textbooks form precarious towers on the floor. Mugs and scattered papers crowd the desk. Laundry, both clean and unclean, forms a sad hill in the corner. The curtains are drawn, and they have been for a long time. The calendar on the wall remains unchanged, MARCH stares back in big bold letters. George stands in the doorway. Only his silhouette is visible from the bright light, and it spills across the floor.
“Jesus Christ, Charles.”
“Don’t start,” Charles mutters from the floor.
“There’s nothing to start on. You can’t live like this.” He marches in, forcefully and almost with a vengeance. Charles watches him as he storms around the room, and no words find their way out of the pit of his stomach.
“I’m fine,” he eventually says.
George turns, and there’s a sickening disappointment in his eyes. “You’re not. You haven't left this room in three days.”
Charles tries to shrug. “Carlos is gone. There’s no reason to.”
George’s face melts into exasperation. Charles knew what it said: Who are you?
“I just can’t see you like this,” he choked, finally.
“You don’t know what it’s like.” Charles’s voice is foreign; he can’t feel the words coming out of him. “I’ve got no one. My mum’s an alcoholic. She’s a mess. My father barely exists. I haven’t seen him in years. Friends are hard for me. You’ll never get it. ‘Cause you’re real lucky, you know that? Everyone just… loves you.”
George continues to stare, but at this point, it’s like his gaze burns straight through. Still, he opens his mouth to speak.
“I want to help you, Charles.” His voice is thick, hard, like stone. “But I never realised that maybe I can’t.”
There’s a fog in the room. He’s not sure who it covers, him, or George; regardless, it’s there, blocking everything between them. He hadn’t seen it before.
He sees it now. George is trapped.
-
The day is peaceful.
They talk, but not about the important things. George tells him about a project at work and his landlord fixing the heating. Charles offers snippets about his course, about a professor who skates to class. It feels natural, even though maybe it shouldn’t. Eventually, Charles asks why he’s already back in London.
“Well, I was supposed to go stay with my girlfriend and her family, but we broke up before Christmas, and I couldn’t fly home in time.”
Oh. “I’m sorry,” Charles responds.
George sort of smirks a little, and Charles isn’t sure what to do.
Still, he’s stood with his arms folded, and he sucks in another mouthful of cold winter air. The chill was only going to intensify.
“Wanna talk somewhere warmer?”
George follows him out of the park.
The walk back to his flat reminds him of many things. They don't really speak; their boots crunch in sync on the snow. Charles watches the pavement cracks below. His own feet leap over them, and he turns to see George do the same.
They pass the newsagent, the Turkish barber, the off-license. The world hasn’t changed in the few hours they’d been in the park.
His fingers are stiff from the cold, so he fumbles with his keys for a few seconds before jamming them in the door. The flat was as he’d left it; the curtain was open, revealing the now-colourless sky. The single plastic bowl sits in the sink, and Charles feels a brief pang. Somehow the flat is more stale, colder and bare.
“Home sweet home.”
He’s not sure if he kept the bitterness out; either way, he can’t hear himself speak. At least the living room’s neat.
George doesn’t answer. He takes off his beanie and coat, hanging them neatly on the back of a chair like he used to. They sit at his small dining table—there wasn’t really anywhere else.
“What have you had to eat today?” George asks, a bolt from the blue.
“I had cornflakes. That’s it. I can see if I have something.”
George shrugs. Charles turns to the fridge and begins to rummage. “I have a, uh, burrito,” He suggests, to which George seems indifferent.
Charles takes the frozen burrito from the freezer, tossing the box. He saws it in half with a bread knife, puts the two halves on plates and shoves them into the microwave. It hums and turns, and he watches.
They eat in silence. The burrito’s hot and steaming on the outside, but he probably shouldn’t have done two thirty-second intervals because it’s icy in the centre and the cheese feels like glue. George doesn’t seem to taste it.
Suddenly, he was back again.
-
They’re in the kitchen. The fog still hasn’t cleared; it’s grown thicker, colder, in spite of the light spreading outside with the arrival of April. George makes pasta. Charles pushes it around on his plate.
George puts his fork down. “I think… I need a break.”
Charles’s head snaps up. “What do you mean?” His voice is distant.
“I’m taking a break. To think.”
“This isn’t taking a break—what—”
“This isn’t working anymore, Charles.” George’s voice was scarily calm, emptied out.
“Don’t do this to yourself, okay? Don’t let things get to you so easy. I know it’s difficult, with your family, it kills me seeing you like this, but I can’t help you. And I’ve tried. You won’t let me. I… I can’t watch anymore.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Get back here—” The panic was pure and blinding. Charles lurched up, the chair screeching. He couldn’t let him leave. If he left, it was real.
He grabs George’s wrist, yanking him closer to demand—something. Stay. Fix this. Don’t leave me too.
George flinches and recoils; it’s hard, and violent. He wrenches his arm back, and his eyes widen with something that isn’t just hurt. Charles sees it.
He lets go, and his hand falls against his side. He stares down at his body, then at George’s stricken face; in its reflection, he sees himself with more clarity than he had ever before; a source of pain.
George takes a small step back, rubbing his wrist. When he speaks again, it isn’t him; Charles can’t recognise his voice. “I’m sorry.”
He looks defeated.
Charles can only watch as he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him with a click.
-
Somehow the sun is already beginning to set. Not that there was much of it anyway, but it’s at the point where the warmth of any daylight vanishes and shadows stretch long across the road like faces. Charles isn’t sure where the day had flashed by so quickly.
George sets his fork down. Charles stares at it sitting on the edge of the plate.
“I’m sorry,” George says softly. He isn’t looking at him; his gaze is fixed on the dirty window. “For how I left.”
How I left, echoes the walls.
Charles turns to face the same window. The streetlights are blinking on, one by one, turning the icy mush outside into pools of dull orange.
He thinks of the flinch. He thinks of the silent phone, the drawn curtains, the unwashed sheets. He thinks of his father’s distant life, which he couldn’t think of, and his mother’s, which may not be there anymore. He thinks of the wall he’d built, brick by brick, and how he’d blamed George for not being able to climb it.
“I’m sorry too.”