Jesus, Mary, and holy Joseph. This canteen’s a fucking warzone.

The hum of a hundred conversations, chairs scraping, trays clattering—it’s all hammering against my skull, splitting my head like a bad pint. Right beside me, Johnny’s hunched over his English homework, whispering poetry under his breath like he’s summoning feckin’ spirits. The words are swimming on the page, doing a little Irish jig just to mock me.

I drop my fork. Hands are too twitchy. Can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

Too fucking loud.

And then—like it was preordained by some overstimulated deity—I see her.

She’s sat a few tables away, shoulders tight, head ducked low. Her hands are in her lap, probably digging into her sleeves, rubbing back and forth in that way she does when things get too much. She’s not arguing back today, not firing off some clever comeback to whatever shite some lad’s saying. No. She’s stiff. Closed off. Eyes flickering, like she’s barely keeping herself here.

She’s gonna bolt.

I know it before she does.

And before I can stop myself, I move.

I’m out of my seat, tray abandoned, and she’s already slipping from hers. We lock eyes across the battlefield of greasy chips and spilled Coke, and there’s no hesitation. No explanation. Just instinct.

We leg it.

Through the double doors, down the empty corridor, past old lockers that have seen decades of teenage misery. I’m breathing hard, adrenaline pumping, hands shaking.

We stumble into the same hiding spot, some empty classroom we’ve both run to before, and collapse onto the floor.

She lets out a shaky breath. I lean my head back against the wall, pressing my palms into my knees, trying to ground myself. The ringing in my ears is still there, but it’s easing, fading into something softer now that the world isn’t closing in on me.

I lean over, ever so slightly, so our shoulders knock together. Not enough to startle her. Just enough so she knows—I see you. I get it.