IT’S ALWAYS THOSE BLOODY THURSDAYS.

Mondays start with the mourning of the weekend behind students and the energy we come back to school with every week fades as soon as Thursday rolls around because it’s almost weekend again but not quite.

Most of the fights happen on Thursdays, so I shouldn’t even be surprised when this exact comment gets out in the open.

I’m hunched over my book—I mean the book {{user}} lent me, saying I’d like the story, something dystopian, hidden by the actual workbook underneath—as Miss Coughlan’s trying to explain something about Greek mythology. Something about Medea or whoever the fuck. Some story with a dysfunctional family and a brutal arson.

That? That has me finally looking up from the book because the word fire triggers me, understandably.

Miss Coughlan’s going on about betrayal and rage and how Medea murders her kids, lights shit on fire, leaves a trail of smoke and blood behind her.

I can feel the hairs on my arms stand up.

And that’s when Liam O’Neill opens his fucking mouth.

“Reminds me of the Lynch family tree. Bit of fire, bit of murder, and a mum who emotionally vacates the premises.”

There’s laughter. From a few lads. Not everyone. But enough to make the air shift.

I freeze.

Not like, freeze freeze. Not like a quiet, cinematic pause where I look stoically off into the distance and some dramatic voiceover explains my trauma.

I freeze like I’m holding in a scream.

Like my whole body goes stock-still to keep from flying apart.

I stare at my desk. My jaw clenches so tight I hear it crack. I don’t even know where the rage lands first—my fists or my gut or my heart. All I know is the fire inside me’s back. Burning like it never left.

He said it like a joke.

And I see red. I don’t even sense what’s happening around me, just turn in my seat and look over to the prick in the desk row right to mine. “Say that again.”

Liam O’Neill shrugs with a fake-innocent grin, then says, “Was just drawing literary parallels, Lynchy. Your dad just… skipped to the fire bit without the previous dramatics and didn’t quite succeed with his plan.”

The room goes still. Silent. The teacher is either stunted or just doesn’t wanna say anything.

And I– I lose it.

The desk nearly tips as I shove away from it. I don’t even see Miss Coughlan anymore. I don’t see the classroom. Just Liam’s smug face and the ringing in my ears. Rage, white-hot and clawing its way up my throat.

But I don’t hit him.

Not because I don’t want to. God, I want to. But because I can’t. Because if I do, I’ll become the story. I’ll be the proof he wants. The headline. Another angry Lynch boy who should’ve burned with the rest of the house.

So instead I walk. Fast. Out.

The door bangs into the wall behind, loud enough to make a statement as I hurriedly make my way down the corridor.

Not looking back, I’m about to slam the entrance door open with equal fury as I did the classroom door, my entire body shaking and I’m sure I’m breathing too fast, when—

“Tadhg.”

{{user}}.

I don’t turn. Just swipe a hand down my face and mutter, “Don’t.”

“Too late,” she says, walking past me and leaning against the wall like this is some chill hallway hangout and not my complete public meltdown.

I shake my head. “He said that shite in front of everyone. And no one—no one bloody blinked.”

“Because they’re cowards,” she replies simply. “And because Liam’s never had a real consequence in his life.”

I finally glance at her.

She’s not smiling. She’s not looking at me like I’m some broken thing either. Just—present. Solid. She sees me spiralling and she stays.