Chapter Text
Dinner that night was spaghetti bolognese. Normally that meant a pretty peaceful evening: Dad making vague conversation about the news, Oliver trying to explain (with way too many sound effects) what happened at school, Tori listening silently while radiating judgment, Mum reminding Charlie at least twice to "sit up straight."
But tonight Oliver was away at a friend’s sleepover. Which should have made things quieter, calmer. For Charlie, though, the quiet was suffocating. His parents and Tori were *staring.* Not constantly, but enough. He could feel it. He twirled pasta around his fork with suspicious caution.
“What?” Charlie said at last, glancing between all three of them. “You’re all—acting weird.”
“No we’re not,” Dad said too quickly, his fork poised midair. “Totally normal dinner. Very tasty. Lovely pasta, Jane.”
Mum gave the smallest of sighs—the kind that confirmed every one of Charlie’s suspicions. Then she neatly placed her fork and knife down on her plate, folded her hands, and fixed him with that *serious parent look.* The one that always made his pulse skitter.
“So,” she began.
Charlie froze. His fork slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the plate. "*So.* That’s not good.”
Tori’s lips twitched, a tiny smirk breaking through her usual calm detachment.
Mum reached under the table and drew out a red notebook. Familiar. Horrifyingly familiar.
Charlie’s breath caught. “Oh my God. No.” His voice squeaked. “No, no, no, no, no, you didn’t—”
The notebook was unmistakable: his *real* journal. Not the decoy diary he left lying around for snooping-avoidance. Not the random doodle book. *The* journal. The one filled with messy, overdramatic, late-night writing about Nick. About Nick’s smile, Nick’s laugh, Nick’s everything. Stuff that should never, *ever* see the outside world.
Charlie’s entire face went nuclear. His skin was on fire. “That is—that’s PRIVATE!”
“Yes, darling, we gathered that,” Mum replied, her tone achingly composed. “But when we came across it… we looked.”
“You READ it?!” Charlie’s voice cracked straight into panic, tears already pricking at his eyes.
Dad went red around the ears, fumbling his napkin. “We didn’t read *all* of it… uh… just enough to get the idea.”
“The idea that you’re creepily obsessed with your boyfriend?” Tori drawled before sipping her water.
“Tori!” Mum snapped, but Charlie was already halfway to implosion.
“You—you weren’t supposed—I had a DECOY ONE for situations like this!” Charlie half-yelled, half-sobbed. “You weren’t supposed to know about this one!”
And then, with pristine, merciless timing, Tori twisted the knife. She set down her glass and, deadpan as ever, said: “I especially enjoyed the part where you wrote two full paragraphs about Nick’s ass.”
Charlie *screamed.* Not in words—just pure horror noise. His hands flew over his face. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look at them. His entire body curled in on itself.
“You READ that?!” The sob punched straight out from his lungs. “Oh my God, no, no no—why would you—how could you—” His voice broke in gasps, his eyes stinging hard now.
“Charlie,” Mum said quickly, voice softening, almost alarmed. “Sweetheart, calm down, we’re not—”
But he was already shaking, overwhelmed by humiliation. “You weren’t supposed to *know!*” Tears came fast now, hot streaks down his cheeks. “It wasn’t supposed—it was just me! Not for you or *anyone*—now it’s ruined, everything’s ruined, you’ll think I’m disgusting—”
“Oh, Charlie,” his mum whispered, standing half out of her chair, but he was already gone.
Charlie shoved his chair back with a screech and bolted. He stumbled for the stairs, chest tight with shame, tears blurring the hallway. He barely heard his parents calling after him as he slammed his bedroom door shut behind him, twisting the lock with shaking hands.
And then he collapsed into his bed, hurling the duvet over his head. The sobs tore out of him painfully, mixing with muffled words. “Why—why did they read it—I can’t—I can’t ever—” He pressed his face into the pillow, curling tight, wishing he could just disappear.
His entire body shook; it wasn’t just embarrassment—it was humiliation so sharp it hurt in his bones. They *knew*. His parents *knew.* They had read the worst of his secret, hormone-fueled ramblings, the words even he hated himself for writing sometimes.
And Tori. His *sister*. Quoting passages like it was the best stand-up comedy she’d ever seen.
He was done. He couldn’t face them ever again. He’d have to move to Switzerland.
After a long while—he didn’t know how long, maybe ten minutes—the knock came. Gentle. Mum’s voice, muffled through the door. “Charlie? Sweetheart? Can I come in?”
“No!” His voice cracked, still choked from crying. “Please go away!”
“Charlie, love,” she said softly. “We’re not angry. You’re not in trouble. We should never have opened that, but you need to know—we don’t… think badly of you. Not at all.”
Charlie curled tighter. He shook his head under the covers. “You *do.* You *have to.*” His words were messy against the pillow. “It was so—it’s so gross—I’m gross.”
“You are not gross,” Mum’s voice said firmly, but with a kindness that made him cry again. “You’re a teenager who is very much in love. That’s all. That is not a bad thing.”
On cue, Tori’s voice floated in faintly through the crack. “Do make sure next time you password-lock your hormone manifesto.”
“TORI!” Charlie bellowed, his tearful voice raw. “GO AWAY!”
He could almost see her smirk as her footsteps receded.
Dad’s voice came next, from further down. “Look, mate, you just… you’ve got to do better at hiding things like that. That’s all I’ll say.”
Charlie groaned miserably into his blanket cocoon, equal parts mortified and touched that his dad had at least tried to defuse things with an awkward honesty.
Another soft knock. Mum again. “We love you, Charlie. All of you. Even the parts you don’t want us to see. You don’t ever need to be afraid of us finding out who you are.”
Charlie let the silence stretch, just his muffled sniffling filling the room. Eventually he croaked out, “You shouldn’t have read it.”
“No,” Mum said firmly. “We shouldn’t have. That was wrong. And we’re sorry.”
His tears stung less when she said it like that. There was still humiliation, yes—burning, deep, like it would never go away. But knowing she regretted it helped dim it a little.
Still, tonight? He wasn’t leaving this blanket fort. Not ever.
Charlie squeezed his pillow, muttering into the fabric. “I can’t ever show my face to them again.”
But deep down, some part of him knew: tomorrow morning, when the sting had dulled, his mum would apologize properly, his dad would try to make a dumb joke to neutralize the tension. Even Tori—horrible, evil Tori—would ease off, if only because she’d see just how much it had hurt him.
For now, though, Charlie buried his face and whispered—dramatic but deadly serious to himself:
“This is worse than death.”
And pulled the covers tighter over his head.