The place is packed, Biddies buzzing with that chaotic Friday night energy. The music’s loud, the air thick with sweat, cider, and the faint stink of old cigarette smoke. Our group’s squeezed around a battered table near the window laughing, shouting over the noise, throwing back drinks.

She’s sitting right there, her head tilted back, laughing like she owns the whole damn place. The way her hair catches the flicker of the neon sign outside, like she’s glowing or something. Everyone’s leaning in, hanging on her every word. And me? I’m just sat here, trying not to look like I’m completely fucked over by it all.

{{user}}’s eyes catch mine for a split second, and Jesus, it’s like the world slows down. But then she’s off again, joking with Claire, loud and wild and untouchable.

“Stop being such a pussy and talk to her” Gibsie says, giving me a shove.

“Easy for you to say” I mutter. “She’s... I don’t know. She’s like fire, bright and dangerous. And I’m just this blue-grey mess in the background.”

Hughie snorts. “Mate, you sound like you’re writing some emo diary.”

“Fuck off,” I snap, but there’s a weird smile on my face.

{{user}} suddenly turns, her grin crooked. “Come on, Patrick, show me you’re not just some sad twat.”

Before I know it, she’s grabbing my hand, pulling me to the middle of the bar. The music pounds around us, but all I hear is her laugh. For a moment, it’s not about the colours or the distance. It’s just us.

Maybe tonight, I’m not the background after all.