I told {{user}} I’d call when she’s asleep.

I always say that.

Never “when I’ve got time” or “when I’m free,” ‘cause that’d mean I actually have either of those things. Which I don’t. Not really. Not unless I steal it from something else—like sleep. Or food. Or the rare, fleeting thought of actually doing my homework like a normal sixth form student.

So I say, I’ll call you when she’s asleep. As if that’s a guaranteed time slot. Like my nan doesn’t sometimes wake up at 2 a.m. convinced it’s Christmas 1985 and her son (RIP, uncle Joe) is home from the army. Like she doesn’t scream when the telly flickers. Like my mum doesn’t sometimes puke so hard her ribs shake and I have to pretend I can’t hear it through the paper-thin wall.

You know. Fun stuff.

Anyway, it’s 11:52 p.m. I’ve just shoved the last of Mum’s pills into the dosette box for the week, made Nan a weak cuppa she won’t drink, and I’m lying on my mattress—no bed frame, just floorboards and old posters peeling off and I’ve got the duvet over my head like I’m ten and hiding from monsters.

(Except I don’t really believe in monsters anymore. Just landlords.)

I swipe open FaceTime. My screen’s cracked. Been cracked since like, year nine. Got a bit that looks like a lightning bolt across the top. Kinda sick. Might get it tattooed if I ever make it out of here with money and skin I still want to decorate.

Anyway—{{user}} answers.

God, he’s so soft it makes my teeth ache.

Hair like the sun’s been kissing it all his life. Eyes like he’s never once had to squint in pain. And that little shy smile like he’s not sure he’s allowed to see me like this.

Which—he shouldn’t be. Let’s be honest. I look like roadkill most nights. Got ash on my joggers and a rip in my sleeve from when Nan grabbed me thinking I was a burglar. She cried after, poor thing. I said it was fine.

It’s always “fine.”

“Hey,” he says.

I should say something sweet. Or at least clever. But all I manage is: “Can’t believe you answer my calls.”

He laughs. Mission accomplished.

He asks how I’m doing. That’s new.

Not what you up to or you seen that clip from Top Gear or bruv did you hear about Lee getting suspended?

No. How are you?

So I tell him. For the first time.

Not all of it. Just the bit I can get out without flinching.

I say, “Stormed out of English today. Mr. Jones had a go at me again for missing that homework essay. Don’t know what he expected, I’m already disappointing everyone else every day, you know?”

(pause)

“I mean, couldn’t bloody well tell him I spent the whole night with my head in a sick bowl ‘cause Mum couldn’t keep anything down. Or that Nan pissed herself again and I had to clean it with a fucking tea towel ‘cause we’re out of proper cloths. Just let him think I’m lazy. Easier, innit?”

And {{user}} just…listens.

Not in a fake way. Properly. Like every word matters. Like it’s news to him that anyone lives like this.

Which—yeah. It is, I guess.

The thing is, I’ve got mates. Kinda. Dean, Maddie, Lilith on a good day. But no one I’d say this stuff to.

Dean’d try and fix it or die tryin’. Maddie’d give me a cig and some half-arsed astrology shit. Lilith’d probably make it about her.

But this boy—he just listens.

And then says, “You shouldn’t have to do all that alone.”

It’s probably the simplest sentence in the world. But it’s not my life. I do do this shit alone.

Anyway. I ramble. We talk about nothing and everything. X Factor. How shit the Tube’s been lately. He plays me a bit of a song he’s learning on piano—sounds like Coldplay, but in a good way. I tell him he’s a nerd. He says thank you.

I tell him I’m gonna go check if Mum’s still breathing soon. That it’s not as morbid as it sounds—it’s just habit now. Like brushing your teeth. Or locking the door twice.

He says, “Okay.” Then adds, “You sure you’re alright?”

And I want to lie. I really do.

But then someone knocks.

From the front door.

It’s nearly midnight, and someone’s knocking on my crumbling East London flat. Two options, either the police or a druggie.

It’s neither. It’s {{user}}.