Fucking brilliant. He’s got his arm around her.

Declan bloody Withers. New lad from Galway. Transfer student with the kind of jawline you could crack walnuts on and a rugby record that makes even Johnny look like he’s playing for the under-12s. Teachers love him. Mums love him. Probably even God loves him.

And now, apparently, she does too.

They’re standing near the lockers—hers, not his, which already pisses me off—and she’s laughing at something he said. Full-on laugh, too. Head back, nose scrunched, that stupid little gap in her teeth showing. It’s the kind of laugh you have to earn. And you want and work to earn.

And he’s earned it in two weeks.

I shove my hands in my pockets and pretend not to look. But I do. Of course I do.

He’s leaning down to whisper something, and she tilts her head up like he’s the sun and she’s been starving for light.

It hits me then, like a punch straight to the ribs: I don’t think she ever looked at me like that.

I mean, sure, I got smiles. Quiet ones. Half-there things, the kind you only notice if you’re paying attention. But maybe that’s the problem. I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy chasing girls who were loud and messy and easy to forget.

And her? She was never loud.

She was steady. Quiet in a way that demanded you shut the fuck up and listen. And I didn’t. I never listened.

But Declan does.

Declan’s got that soft, focused look in his eyes like she’s the whole bloody world and he’s only just now got the map. And she’s letting him. She’s letting him see her.

To be loved is to be seen, right? And he saw her first.

Not first in time—first in a way that mattered.

I want to punch something.

Instead, I walk past them, chin up, pretending I don’t see the way she leans into his side like it’s second nature.

He sees her. Sees every bit of her.

And I— I looked away for too long. Looked at other people for too long.