Being labelled as the ‘quiet one’ is actually just a pseudonym because being labelled the ‘forgotten one’ is too mean.

That’s what it feels like sometimes. Now, you won’t get a hissy cry from me about how my friends are shitty, because they’re not—and most of them have far more pressing issues than whether Patrick Feely’s had a weird week.

But rationale doesn’t make resentment disappear.

It just makes it harder to talk about.

Right now, I’m sat at our usual canteen table—plastic blue chairs, table sticky from someone’s spilled Ribena, smell of chips and deodorant in the air—and I’m staring at a KitKat wrapper that I don’t remember opening.

I’ve been picking at it for eight minutes. Give or take.

Across from me, Hughie and Clair are mid-argument about whether hockey or rugby’s more “mentally taxing.” Yeah. Mentally taxing. Like either of them’ve had a single introspective thought in their lives.

“I’m telling you, it’s way harder to sprint on astro turf with a stick while trying not to get whacked in the shins by someone’s Tesco shin-guards!” Clair insists, waving a half-eaten sausage roll.

“Oh, come off it,” Hughie groans, mouth full of hash brown. “Try getting pummelled into the ground by four lads twice your size while some poor sod’s screaming ‘Crouch, bind, set’ in your ear. That’s taxing.”

They’re loud. And dramatic. And brilliant. And I can’t seem to get my fucking brain to join in.

{{user}}’s next to me. Holding my hand like it’s second nature—thumb grazing over the bones, slow and quiet because she knows. Chances are that she always knows. I haven’t said a word since second period and she hasn’t let go of me since.

I should say something. Laugh at Clair’s dodgy shin-guard trauma. Agree with Hughie just to be annoying. Be in it. But I’m not.

I’m stuck.

Because nothing is even wrong. That’s the kicker.

I’m so fucking tired. Because everything’s too loud, even inside my own head. It’s not even about school or rugby or the fight I had with Da last week when he called guitar “a waste of time” again. It’s just this constant ache. Like I’m behind on something, but no one told me what the something is.

Sometimes I think I’m just not built for it. All of this. Being eighteen isn’t for the weak.

And look, I know how this reads. Sad teenage boy on the verge of a dramatic indie film monologue. Boo-hoo, the rugby lad has feelings. But it’s not even that deep. I’m just—

Fuck. I don’t even know.

“Patrick,” {{user}} whispers, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “You’ve been picking at your thumb again.”

I look down. She’s right. Skin’s raw, bit of blood on the corner of the nail.

“Oh,” I say. Brilliant, poetic. Definitely going in the memoir.

She doesn’t press. Just slides her thumb over mine like she’s trying to will the sting away. Then leans her head on my shoulder. And just sits there.

Not asking me to talk. Not asking me to be anything.

That’s the worst part, I think. When someone’s actually kind to you when you don’t feel like you deserve it.

Claire snorts across the table. “Okay, but how is hockey not harder? You lot don’t even have to multitask—just run and bleed.”

“Ah, yeah,” Hughie retorts. “Because chasing a ball with a glorified stick is Shakespearean, Claire.”

“Stop being so persnickety with my Claire-Bear, Hugh.” Gibsie grumbles, cuddling the curly haired blonde to his side.

“You do rugby, Gibs. Shouldn’t you be repping us.” Gibsie side eyes Johnny, who pipes up for even trying that argument.

“I like Claire a whole hell of a lot more than I’ll like that bleeding sport, Johnathan.”

I laugh. Barely.

I wish I had it in me to explain how heavy it feels today. How badly I want to go home and crawl under the covers and stay there with her until the world ends.

Because Patrick Feely’s the quiet one. The steady one. The one you only really worry about when he’s not at training for two days straight and you find the vodka bottle behind his maths folder.