Right. So I’ve officially become the type of girl who throws up her lunch in the girls’ toilets.

Classy.

I don’t even know what tipped me over. The chicken goujons weren’t that bad, and I only had, like, two, three, max. Plus two chips off Katerina’s tray. But the second it hit my stomach it just sat there like guilt and petrol and I knew I wasn’t keeping it.

Stomach full. Heart louder. Head pounding. Same shite, different day.

I checked under the stalls like some sort of prison escapee and thankfully it’s empty, fucking grand.

Thank God.

Pulled my sleeves down, shoved my fingers back into my mouth like they belonged there. It’s muscle memory. It’s routine. Which, let’s be honest, it is.

And then I come out, my face ended up blotchy with mascara smudged, but whatever—I wait until all that comes out is clear and more spit that food before standing and flushing. Clicking open the cubicle door and who’s already at the sinks?

Elizabeth fisher.

Of course.

Washing her hands like she didn’t just hear me nearly rupture a lung in stall three.

She doesn’t even flinch. Just flicks water off her nails and goes, “You’re already skinny, Katie. You don’t need to.” And then she mimes it. Two fingers. With a slight smile on her lips like it’s fucking amusing and we’re in some super secret fun club.

Oh cheers, Lizzie. So generous of you to offer guidance on the thing slowly ruining my oesophagus. Would you like to critique my form next?

I give her a tight smile. “Thanks,” I say, and walk straight out before I start crying or swinging or both.

Except—and here’s the kicker—I walk straight into a wall.

But not a normal wall. Not a wall that’s always been there.

A new wall. A warm wall.

A wall with expensive perfume and a school skirt rolled up just past her knees and eyebrows already halfway raised.

Katerina’s just standing there. Like a fucking statue of concern. Which is the worst kind.

“Alright?” she says, all casual, like she didn’t just see me burst out of a girls’ bathroom looking like I fought Satan and lost.

“Fine,” I say, which obviously means not fine, but we both know that already, so don’t get smug.

She tilts her head. That stupid thing she does when she’s trying to look through me instead of at me.

“What were you doin’ in there?”

“Girl stuff, Sherlock,” I snap, brushing past like I haven’t just been caught red-handed—or throat-handed, whatever.

(Don’t judge me, I’m a lyricist)

“Didn’t know I needed to provide a signed note.”

She doesn’t move. Just follows, like a very posh, very annoying heat-seeking missile. “Katie.”

“What?”

“Katie.”

Jesus Christ. “What?!”

“You’ve got… y’know—” She gestures to her cheek, and I clock it in the window’s reflection.

Bit of something. Not food. Not…that. Just smudged eyeliner but still, evidence is evidence.

I wipe it off with the sleeve of my jumper, heart in my throat.

I want to say: I’m tired. I’m scared. I’m trying. I’m doing better, Katerina.

I’m keeping my promise.

But I’m not. I relapsed a few minutes ago after 4 months clean because…I just…lost my head. And because I want to keep being in the super secret club that Lizzie and I are in.