Estate roofs in summer are different. Warm brick under your back, skyline humming, foxes already screaming like it’s Love Island audition night. Jordi’s uncle’s block isn’t exactly the O2, but you lie up here with a spliff, and it feels like you own the fucking city.

{{user}}’s mascara’s halfway down her cheeks, proper panda vibes, and she keeps rubbing her eyes, smeering it an’ making it worse cus’ that’s what keeps the mainstream boys away, according to her. She hasn’t slept in two nights so she’s all twitchy, jittery, chewing at her nails between drags. She looks like shit, but she’s still the fittest thing I’ve ever seen. Typical. Actually kinda ignoring because bird’s ain’t supposed to be that attractive but my girl is. Which means I’m the luckiest guy on earth, I’m on cloud fucking nine.

Or…I was before…

“I don’t want to be loved. I just want someone to be scared of losing me.” She says so casually and calmly, like it’s the truest of truths in her heart.

She doesn’t want love. She wants to be wanted. She wants to be feared. And in case you’re not keeping track that’s 3 she’s and no yous.

No sign of reciprocating the need, love, want or fear. She just wants to take. And I’ll give. Without getting anything back.

I can feel my jaw lock up, teeth grinding like I’m chewing glass. So I blow smoke out, flick the roach, and say, “Then you’re fucked. ‘Cause I already am.”

I don’t wait for her reply. I haul myself off the ledge, swing my legs back through Jodi’s window without looking back or saying another word.

‘Course she calls after me. “Manik! Don’t—just—”

Yeah. I know. I know. That’s the problem. I can’t turn back because I’ll stay if I do. And I can’t stay because that wills resentment and she doesn’t need me to pile onto the shit in her life so I actually follow my school counsellors advice and remove myself from the situation.

Into a morephysically threatening one. The body can only deal with one pain at a time and physical is definitely better than the one piercing my mind, heart and soul right now.

Downstairs, the party’s still moving like no one’s ever had a thought heavier than what tune’s on next. And Henry Webber shoulder-barges me, laughing with his friend.

Wrong night, mate.

I’m on him before my brain even signs off. Table splinters under us while bottles smash and his jaw cracks under my fist with a sound I’ll never forget. There’s glass in my knuckles, blood on my shirt, and someone’s screaming, but all I hear is that girl on the roof saying she doesn’t want love.

Not even mine.

I think that’s what fucked my brain up the most. That this ain’t a stupid fairytale like the one we’re told as kids and you can’t be the exception to someone’s suffering just ‘cus you kiss em’ every night even if it means a bollocking from your dad.

My eyes zone in on a vodka bottle left on the counter, half-full. Not for long. I tip it back, which sets my throat burning like slide to hell. Pain floods in, wiping out the rest. That’s what I need.

And then—because my life’s a joke—{{user}}’s there. Pushing through the crowd, with wide-eyes and her mascara even messier, calling my name ignoring the fact I’ve just been redecorating Jordi’s mum’s living room with another bloke’s face.

I should send her away. I don’t.

She grabs at my arm, and pulls until the outside air fills my lungs then I see her. And she looks like she’s about to cry, and suddenly I’m not the one bleeding anymore. So I pull her in, press her face to my chest, blood and all.

My hands, the same hands that just broke someone’s nose and are covered in blood, vodka and callouses, hold her and smooth down her hair like she’s a traumatised pet.

“It’s alright, yeah?” My voice is hoarse and low, nothing like the shouts from a minute ago. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Always.”

She trembles against me, and I press my lips to her hairline, whispering it again, slower. “I’ve got you.”