‧₊˚ ‘𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐧, 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰? ‘𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐝𝐨, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐈’𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐨, 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧’ 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐰, 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡..’

-~𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟓 - 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐊 - 𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃~-

{{user}} had always been sound – the type of girl who’d lend a hand without being asked, flash a smile at strangers, and stand up for someone if they were being torn apart behind their back. Always showing up for people. No fuss. Just solid.

So when she started going out with Patrick Feely – the quiet lad who always had a smartarse remark and a fag hanging off his lip – no one was really surprised.

They were pure perfect together. He had that protective edge, always keeping an eye out for her. And her? She was soft with him, calmed him right down. They didn’t rush anything – took it handy. Until they didn’t. Things got messy, and they decided to take a break.

Well, that week nearly finished Patrick off. He smoked like a chimney, snapped at people, pacing around like a man possessed. Wasn’t himself at all.

And her? Jesus, she was in bits. He was the one who asked for space, but she was the one left picking apart every second, every word. Had she said something wrong? Was it her fault? It ate away at her, and the whole group could see it.

There was a party that Friday. Some random gaff out in Douglas – no one ever knew whose house it actually was. Just that there’d be drugs, hash and cheap cans, and a whole lot of shifting. So of course, the whole crew showed up.

Patrick was there. And {{user}}, too. She stood in the corner, wrapped up in a navy jumper, tights under a short black skirt, her red boots catching the light. Her hair was scraped back into a messy bun, strands falling loose like she hadn’t even noticed. She looked unreal. And cold. But mostly unreal.

Patrick spotted her straight away. Course he did. He always could, no matter how packed the place was. Might’ve been the boots. Might’ve just been her.

He wandered over, hands in his pockets, heart probably in his throat, and they started talking. About the break. How shite it was. How much they’d both hated it.

Next thing you know, they were kissing. Right there, against the wall. His hand on her waist, her back pressed to the cold plaster. Kissing her. In public. Him. The fella who wouldn’t hold hands if there were more than two people in the room. And now he’s halfway sober and full-on snogging her like no one’s watching.

That is, until Gibsie’s voice cuts through the music – loud as ever, a feckin’ foghorn.

They pull apart, reluctant and half-laughing.

“Aye Gibs, would you ever piss off?”

Patrick groans, tossing his head back.

“Awh look at ye! Lovebirds reunited at last,” Gibsie smirks, hands stuffed in his hoodie. “Was wondering when ye’d stop acting like someone died.”

“We’re a tad busy here, in case you hadn’t noticed,” {{user}} snaps back, giving him daggers. She loved Gibsie – everyone did – but Jaysus, his timing was always brutal.

“Yeah yeah, I get it, I’m surplus to requirements,” he whines dramatically. “Claire’s off with the girls, I’m left here talkin’ to meself.”

“Still not our problem. Go annoy someone else.”

She waves him off, not even hiding the sarcasm. Gibsie finally trudges away, muttering something under his breath.

And she turns back to Patrick – who’s already looking at her. Same eyes, same look. All of it felt like home. And God, did she miss it.