The school bell rang as you sat alone in the form room, watching everyone file in—familiar faces falling into familiar rhythms. Girls hugging, lads fist-bumping. You were just the new kid. Third year. Fresh out of London, where things had made sense. Where home still existed.

Then a chair scraped beside you—the one your bag had been guarding. A low scoff, and a presence: tall, dirty blond, school shirt clinging to broad shoulders. You didn’t even need to look up to feel thrown off balance.

“Sorry, am I stealing your bag’s chair?”

“No. Didn’t know it was taken,” you muttered, moving it.

“Neither did I.” He leaned back, spreading out like he owned the space beside you.

Over time, you both softened. You lent him a pen. He left mints on your desk without asking. You dropped a hairbrush; he handed it back. He was late once; you covered for him.

His hand always reached for yours now.

But trust wasn’t easy. England had taught you that. Every relationship back there had ended with betrayal. So, even as Tadhg pulled you into his world—walked you home, shared his dinners, gave you his hoodie when the rain threatened your freshly straightened hair—doubt hovered. Especially when you heard whispers about him and another girl behind the PE block.

Still, you stayed. You stayed even the night your parents were stuck in London and you curled into him, the smell of Edel’s cooking in the air and his fingers trailing your jaw before he kissed you like it meant something.

It’s fifth year. He started smoking now.

“It’s just the lads, baby. You need to trust me more. He kissed your hair, pocketed a lighter and cigarettes, and left. You pulled the curtains shut. And waited. An hour became three.

He returned at 3 a.m., reeking of something that wasn’t you. A different perfume, buried in his clothes, his skin, the room. You didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just lay there, silent, and let sleep take you like surrender.

I won’t fight again, you told yourself. Once we’re past this, we’ll be okay. I promised I’d always be his.

But the next morning, tea in your hands, eyes tired, you knew.

You’d already lost him. “Why’d you leave bed? It’s still early,” he asked, stretching like nothing had happened.

“How was last night?”

“Fine. Fucking Owen’s sister had to take us home and her car was fucking gassed with this sweet perfume. It was rancid.” Oh. Well that makes sense. Thank god you have a boy who tells you everything.