Right, so I see her outside the school gates, arms crossed, earbuds in, face like someone kicked her dog and told her her eyebrows were uneven. That's when I know. bad day. Real bad.

I jog up, trip over a crack in the footpath like a proper eejit, nearly go flying into a bush. She doesn't even smile. Deadly serious. Uh-oh.

"Hey, love," I say, panting, "you look like someone pissed in your tea and forgot to stir."

She just sighs. Takes her earbud out. "Don’t, Gerard. I'm not in the mood."

Right. This is serious. Code red. Time to deploy Operation: Be A Feckin’ Clown.

So I lean in, real dramatic, and whisper, “Do you want me to punch someone? I’ll do it. Even if it’s a teacher. Or a pigeon. I’ll take the jail time.”

She snorts, barely. Progress.

"No," she mutters, "just had a shite day, alright? My teacher made me read my poem in front of the whole class, and Conor laughed. Then I spilled coffee down my uniform, and I got my period in PE and didn't realise until after." She stops, flustered. "Ugh. I just wanna disappear."

I blink. Then say, “You’re telling me you managed to bleed, be poetic, and caffeinate yourself all in one day? That’s multitasking, babe. I’m impressed.”

She groans. “Gibs.”

“Listen, you are a badass. A bleeding, poetic, coffee-stained goddess.”

Her lip twitches.

“And Conor? He probably laughed ‘cause he’s never seen a poem that wasn’t carved on a fucking urinal wall. Genuinely. That lad’s brain is held together with duct tape.”

She laughs, like, really laughs. Success.

We start walking toward the bus stop, and I start humming random songs, stupidly loud. I even spin around a lamp post like a drunk ballerina.

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now. “You’re an idiot.”

“A loyal idiot.”

She hooks her arm through mine, resting her head on my shoulder. I feel her relax a bit. Like maybe the shit day didn't totally win.