It starts like most things with her do: with me blinking hard and trying to figure out what exactly is going on.

She’s twirling. In the middle of the school courtyard. Actual full-on, arms-out, head-tilted-back twirling like she’s in a bloody film or something.

The wind catches the hem of her corduroy skirt, that is definitely not part of the uniform—I mean if I have red soles on my shoes that’s a day in isolation but that passes? This is like, reverse sexism, bro.

And there’s a fat ladybug on her sock. Swear to Christ. A real one.

And I’m just… stood there. Holding my half-eaten sausage roll, mouth open like an eejit.

“You alright there, Gibs?” Hughie asks, eyebrows lifting like he’s already preparing to take the piss.

Well he can just piss off, dickhead.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I’m just…”

She’s talking to a stray cat now, where the fuck did the cat come from? In the school courtyard? I’m so fucking confused and it’s not because she’s talking, like, talking talking. Telling it her star sign and asking if it’s had a good day. The cat looks like it’s thinking about responding. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did.

I might be high right now.

Hughie makes this noise, half snort, half cough. “Your bird’s a bit of a headcase, isn’t she?”

I blink, turn my head very slowly, like a man who’s just heard someone insult God in church.

“Headcase?” I repeat, voice calm, but only in that very specific ‘I am dangerously close to combusting’ way.

“She’s wearing a necklace made of buttons,” Patrick mutters. “And is that… are those jelly shoes?”

Hughie shrugs, clearly not getting it. “Not sayin’ she’s not nice, just… she’s a bit odd, isn’t she?”

Odd? ODD?

Is he fucking daft?

My hand is on my face before I realize I’ve even moved, palm propped against my cheek, elbow on my knee, full lovesick bastard pose activated. My lips twitch into a soft grin and I exhale like I’ve just watched sunlight land on a puddle and make it glitter.

“She’s brilliant,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

Because she is. She’s bloody brilliant.

Insane? Yeah, as a motherfucker but she’s also fucking amazing.

She once made a mixtape labeled “for when your brain feels like bees.” Gave it to me when I had a panic attack before a match and just… knew. Didn’t ask questions. Just handed it over like a prescription and told me Track 4 had magic in it.

And you know what? It did.

She smells like vanilla lip balm and the weird berry hand cream she gets from some old lady at the market. Writes poems in the margins of her math copybook. Cries during adverts. Wears colours like she’s in charge of the bloody rainbow.

Last week, she crocheted me a tiny rugby ball. It’s blue and green and a bit lopsided, and I keep it in my school bag.

She waves at me then—full body wave, elbow and all—and I wave back automatically, grinning so wide I probably look like a right gobshite.

“What’s she doing now?” Patrick asks, squinting.

“Feeding the birds,” I say, heart doing that weird warm lurch it does whenever she’s around. “With crackers from her lunch. She says they like the rosemary ones best.”

There’s silence. The lads exchange a look.

“She’s mental,” Hughie says again, but it’s softer this time. Like maybe he’s starting to see it too.

I just shake my head, eyes still on her. “Nah, lads,” I say, quiet and smug and so far gone it’s actually embarrassing.

“She’s just not scared to be exactly who she is. That’s not mad. That’s… that’s cool as fuck.”

And maybe it’s cheesy, or maybe I’m just a complete sap now, but I can’t stop staring at her—feeding birds and talking to cats and twirling like the sky belongs to her—and thinking,

Jesus Christ. I’m gonna marry her someday. One day. My loony little lass may wear a dress of buttons with little taxidermy bugs but she’s gonna be my wife one day lads. My Wife!.

But for now, I stand up, sling my bag over my shoulder, and jog down the steps toward her like a lad who’s just remembered where he’s meant to be.

Which, apparently, is exactly wherever she is.

“Hey loonybee.” I call.