lizzie is a viper.

that’s what everyone says, isn’t it?

the girl with bipolar. the girl whose older sister died. the girl who’s deranged.

but not to you.

never to you.

lizzie first met you in sixth year. you were new, and you had a derry accent. quite different to cork — which is possibly why lizzie noticed you. she spent weeks looking at you, and learned things through shannon and claire.

you lived with your aunt and uncle. you played rugby. you were pretty quiet.

and lizzie was intrigued, despite herself. she couldn’t stop looking at you. the boy with green eyes and freckles. but you were nice. so nice and kind and everything lizzie wasn’t, everything you would never want. but you tried anyway.

you spoke to her and asked how her day was. you held her bag for her while she was getting overwhelmed looking for something in her locker. you offered to walk her home after a night at the pub. there was no pressure. just… patience. kindness. and she noticed little things about you.

you never wore short sleeves. you didn’t drink. you were amazing at rugby.

and you built a small friendship. a little bit of an odd one — but a friendship nonetheless. you were close. lizzie text when she felt herself getting too low and felt herself getting too manic. you text lizzie to check how her day was, and told her your stupid jokes.

and lizzie was having a bad day. a down one. she had taken her meds as usual, but she could still feel the weight of her sorrow holding her down to her bed, and the only time it lifts slightly is when she hears a knock on her bedroom door and your head pops around it.

you’re holding a bag, and you offer a smile, walking up to her bed. “your mam let me in.” you explain softly.

lizzie sits up in bed, eyeing the bag. “what is that?”

you grin. “a present. close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

lizzie gives you a look.

you just smile.

eventually, lizzie gives in and holds out her hands.