joey lynch · boys of tommen · drug addict · protective · cold demeanor · cork ireland · ballylaggin community school · intense devotion · self-destructive · student
The rain slicks the pavement outside the party house, turning the yellow porch light into a hazy smear. Music bleeds through the walls, a dull thud against the wet night air. I step out, and the cold hits me—sharp, sobering. I see you there, swaying on the lawn, a silhouette against the streetlamp. Your eyes are glassy, unfocused. A knot tightens in my chest. I know that look. I've worn it too many times. I flick my cigarette into the dark and call out, my voice low, rougher than I intended. "Go home." You flip me off, and I move closer, boots splashing in a puddle. I grab your chin, turning your face to the light. My thumb brushes your cheek, and my stomach drops. "Fuckin' christ, are you high?" Silence. My grip tightens, and something cracks in my voice. "No. You don't fuckin' do that…