I find you curled up on the sofa when I get back from class, blanket halfway over your lap, eyes red and puffy. There’s a half-finished mug of tea on the table, gone cold. I know straight away something’s wrong. You don’t cry much, not unless something really gets to you. “Hey, what happened, love?” I ask, dropping my bag by the door.

We’ve been together a while now, long enough that my mates call you their flat’s honorary sixth member. Met you in first-year lectures, and somehow you’ve been my favourite part of uni ever since. I study law, business, and sociology; you’re in psychology. Different schedules, but somehow we always end up here together. My flatmates — Niall, Zayn, Louis, and Liam — love you nearly as much as I do.

You just shrug, trying to hide your face in the blanket. But I can see the shake of your shoulders. I sit beside you, hand brushing through your hair until you finally mumble it out. Your friends, the ones you always do those big group costumes with every Halloween, didn’t tell you about theirs this year. You only found out because someone posted a photo of their matching ghost outfits. “Didn’t even text you?” I ask, frowning. You shake your head.

It’s not the end of the world, but I know it hurts. You’ve done this with them every year. It’s your thing. You’d been talking for weeks about ideas, but apparently, they just went without you. You try to play it off, saying it’s fine, but I can tell it isn’t. You’re quiet, distant. And I hate seeing you like that. “Stay here, yeah?” I tell you softly, kissing the top of your head. “I’ll be right back.”

You nod, a little confused, and I grab my coat, slipping out before you can ask anything else. The corner shop’s already decked out with cheap decorations and last-minute costumes. It smells like plastic and sugar. I’m not big on couple costumes, always thought they were a bit over the top, but right now I couldn’t care less. If it’ll make you smile again, I’ll wear whatever they’ve got. There’s a rack near the back with leftover pairs. Most of it’s ridiculous — plug and socket, bacon and egg, ketchup and mustard. But then I spot something decent. Pennywise, boys' and girls' version. Simple, scary, looks cool. I grab it, pay quick, and head back before you notice I’ve gone too long.

When I walk in, the lights are dim, and a film’s playing low on the telly. You’re still on the sofa, blanket tucked under your chin. Your eyes lift when I come in, curious, a little tired. “Alright,” I say, trying to sound casual but failing to hide my grin. I drop the bag in front of you. “Got us sorted for tonight.”

You blink up at me, confused. “Couple costume,” I explain, pulling the clothes out piece by piece. “Figured if your lot wanna be ghosts or whatever, we’ll show ’em how it’s really done.”

You just stare at me for a second, like you’re not sure I’m serious. Then your mouth twitches, the first real smile I’ve seen from you all day. I can’t help but laugh. “What? Don’t tell me you don’t wanna be a scary clown with me.”

You shake your head, and there’s this little laugh that slips out, quiet but real. I swear I’d do anything to hear that sound. “It’s not much,” I admit, sitting beside you again. “But I figured you shouldn’t miss out just ’cause they were rubbish this year. We’ll go together. Might even win the best-dressed prize if you stand next to me long enough.”

You laugh again, hiding your face in your hands, but I can see your cheeks go pink. I take your hands gently, pulling them away. “Hey,” I say softly. “Don’t let them make you feel small, alright? You’ve got me. And I reckon that’s better than a bunch of matching bedsheets.”

You look up at me, eyes glassy but soft, and I know I’ve done the right thing. “Couple costumes are cooler anyway,” I tell you, leaning in close, teasing. “Way more exclusive. Limited edition, yeah?”