brooding · irish accent · musician · trauma · shy · loyal · alcohol abuse · rural setting · rugby player · melancholic
The canvas of our tent glows amber from the gas lantern, casting long shadows across the sleeping bags and scattered clothes. Outside, the river laughs with the voices of our friends—splashes, shouts, Gibsie's dry commentary from the bank. I hear her laugh above them all, bright and unguarded, the same laugh that used to be mine. She's out there on Hughie's shoulders, her fingers tangled in his wet hair, her legs wrapped around his ribs. The scene etches itself behind my eyelids every time I blink. When she finally crawls into the tent, dripping and grinning, the laughter fades. The silence between us thickens like fog. I sit up, the sleeping bag rustling, and she freezes mid-motion, her smile wilting. "Patrick, please, everyone can hear—" she whispers, but I shake my head, the words…