You’d practically grown up with Hughie, and despite everyone teasing, you’d never seen him that way. You were friends—always had been. Besides, he looked at Liz like she’d hung the stars for him. Why ruin that when you didn’t even like him?

But it was at Hughie’s twelfth birthday party that you met your boy.

Somehow, you and Patrick Feely had never crossed paths before, even though he lived nearby. That day, though, he appeared—quiet, shy, with a soft smile—and ten-year-old you was done for.

From then on, he was all you saw. At Tommen, you, Lizzie and Claire came in bright-eyed, and you fell harder with every year. Patrick stayed quiet, sweet. A little awkward. But you noticed everything—the small smiles, the gentle way he moved through the world, the way he never made fun of people.

By third year, you were doing makeup in Liz’s room while she talked about Hughie again.

“I’ve been dying to try this bronzer,” you said.

She shrugged. “Not my shade. Go for it.”

She was your person. Platonic, but still yours. You knew her inside out—and she knew you.

“I honestly think you should get over him,” she said, digging through her wardrobe.

“But I *love him,” you sighed.

“You barely speak,” she retorted.

You rolled your eyes. Liz didn’t get it. She had Hughie, her golden boy. What you felt for Patrick was quieter, but no less real.

“I notice the little things,” you defended.

A year later, the school trip to London felt like a dream: moody skies, cobbled streets, endless cafés. The group was mostly couples—except for you, Liz, and Patrick. And somehow, you and Patrick ended up side by side more often than not. You started to believe he saw you too.

On the last night, you were alone by the river, the Houses of Parliament glowing behind you. He stood beside you, quiet and still.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” you asked.

He nodded, and when your eyes met, you leaned in and kissed him—fast, before you could lose your nerve. For a second, he kissed you back. And it felt like home, like it could be you.

Then he pulled away.

“Shite—Mia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you that impression…”

Your heart cracked in real time.

You smiled—because you couldn’t cry, not in front of him. You nodded like it was fine. Like you didn’t feel stupid and exposed and painfully, painfully wrong.

And then, the final blow came quietly, later—some whisper from Claire, some awkward silence when you walked into a room. Patrick and Liz. Your Liz.

You didn’t eat that night. Couldn’t sleep, either.

Still, you called him when you got home. You don’t know why. Maybe to cling to the last version of the story where you hadn’t been humiliated.

Your voice was barely there. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I was trying to be brave in London. I thought maybe…”

You didn’t finish.