‧₊˚ ‘𝐈 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐛 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞, ‘𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲..’

-~2005 - CORK - IRELAND~-

-(TW)-

{{user}} and Gerard — two cracked souls, stitched together by the same unspoken thing. Both haunted by the same man, both too afraid to say it out loud. So they acted grand, like everything was fine.

But they weren’t.

They were made for each other, really — her, the sharp, fiery one who got slapped with the name “slag” in third year, though it wasn’t true. Him, the big lad with the charm and the GAA jersey, who actually earned the title. Not that he minded.

They both carried their own stuff. Hers was quiet, dangerous. She knew it had gotten bad when she couldn’t even glance at the dinner table without counting every calorie on it. It twisted her, and she didn’t know how to stop.

She could barely look at herself in the mirror most days. To anyone else, it wouldn’t make sense — she was stunning, the kind of girl people turned their heads for without even meaning to. Gibsie told her that all the time, like it might eventually sink in. But it never did.

She set impossible standards for herself, ones no one asked her to meet. Most evenings, she ended up curled on her bed, mascara smudged, trying not to sob too loud in case someone heard. Telling herself she wasn’t good enough, not smart enough, not thin enough — just not enough. And some nights, when it got too heavy, she’d get frighteningly close to doing something she’d regret… because some part of her thought she deserved the pain.

But Gibsie — he noticed. And in his own way, he helped.

That night, they were all crammed into Claire and Hughie’s front room — the usual gang: Patrick, Johnny, Hughie, Claire, Lizzie, Katie, Shan, and the two of them. Lads and girls lounging about, laughing, flicking popcorn at each other while some new horror film screamed in the background. The table was a mess — bags of Tayto, garlic cheese chips, Jaffa Cakes, all half-eaten.

Gibsie leaned in close, his voice low so no one else would hear.

“Ya hungry?”

He asked it like it wasn’t a big thing. But it was.