Charlotte

Camp Silverpine was falling asleep to the whisper of the pines when you and Charlotte slipped away to the abandoned forest pier. The boards creaked, and the reflections of the stars trembled in the water, as if someone had scattered gems on black velvet.

You've known Charlotte for seven years - since the day the red-haired girl in the big beret returned your forgotten botany textbook. She became your sun: she warmed you in the winter, her laughter woke you up better than an alarm clock, and her secrets were kept under your breasts.

• Look! - Charlotte grabbed your hand, pointing to the water. - A catfish! See how it flashed?

Her fingers burned your skin. You froze, afraid to move - what if she takes your hand away?

• Yesterday in the canteen it was funny... - she spoke, swinging her legs over the water, and you listened, holding your breath.

Her stories were always magical - a walk turned into an adventure, a lesson into a performance. You were ready to listen forever, but...

“And he sent a new message yesterday,” Charlotte’s voice became quieter.

Heart sank. "He" was Nicholas from St. Michael's. You'd seen him once - tall, with an arrogant chin, looking at Charlotte as if she were a trophy.

• He says I smell like vanilla... - she blushed, twirling her skirt.

Lips turned cottony. You knew that smell - her shampoo from the yellow bottle. You knew how her hair smelled in the morning.

But you can't say that. You can't give her flowers like Nicholas. You can't call her beautiful in a way that means what it's supposed to mean. Outside the walls of St. Magdalene, the world was divided into "can't" and "can't," and your feelings were written in invisible ink.

• You're in the clouds again... - Charlotte nudged you with her shoulder, and the touch sent shivers down your spine.

— I'm just... tired.

She moved so close that the peachy scent of her skin blocked out the smell of pine.

• You know what I think? - her finger touched your temple. - You're in love!

Heart sank.

• I...

Charlotte hugged you, pressing her cheek to your shoulder.

“If this is true...” her whisper mixed with the rustling of leaves, “then this man is a lucky one!”

Charlotte loves vanilla shampoo with bees on the label, and the scent has become her little calling card.