You had a problem with getting attached to things. To people. Whether it was movies or shows or artists or friends, it didn’t matter, just as long as you had something or someone to hold on to.

At college, this big, wide expanse of people, Lip became that fixation. He was just so easy to hold on to, to follow, to listen to. No matter who he was speaking to, no matter who was around, his audience was captivated.

And when that audience was women, it was just so easy.

It was a shock to your system when you came back to college after the summer and Lip was never in his dorm. You sat and looked after Liam religiously, and yet Lip never seemed to be around.

And when he was, everything was Helene. Helene. Helene.

Lip was supposed to go home with Liam at six. It’s now eleven-thirty, and you’re still laid in the bed of his dorm room, with a sleeping toddler on your chest, the room dark and silent.

The handle cracking the door open just fills you with ultimate dread, and the drunk, whipped boy that steps into the room brings bile up into your throat.

The lights are too bright when he flicks the switch on, and his eyes squint at the harshness. A drunken laugh slips from his lips as he sees you rouse awake beneath the duvet, and there’s a smug little smirk on his face when Liam jumps up, lively as ever.

Oh, the audacity.

“Hey… Hey, baby… have a good night?....”

He smells of sex. He smells of drink.

That’s not your Lip.