A knock on my bedroom door pulls my focus from my sketch. In a blink, the room is dark and I realise I'm squinting. When did the sun even set?

Sliding off my bed, I undo the chain and bolt locks and open the door.

Nicolás smiles. 'Got Maccy D's.'

Ew. Cringe. Why would he call it that?

He holds out one of the McDonald's bags to me. 'I'll be eating in the kitchen. You can join me if you want.'

Sounds totally natural and not at all rehearsed.

'I'm really sorry I couldn't make it to your competition today.'

I take the food. 'I don't care.'

Closing the door, I return to my bed. I've no desk and even if I did, I'd still eat in bed because when did crumbs kill anybody? I open the veggie burger to pluck out the pickles but find none. Summat unfamiliar unfurls in my chest. Nicolás must have ordered it without... 

Just as I take my first bite, my phone screen lights up with an incoming call. Brow furrowed, I grab it from the bed and freeze. It continues to buzz in my hand as I stare at the caller ID: diwa🦟.

We won maths olympiad by a respectable margin today but with incredible talent on her part, Diwa's mood only soured. What the fuck could she possibly want from me at nine p.m.?

I catch the call seconds before it ends, hesitate, and lift the phone to my ear. 'Yeah?'

My fear that she's about to kick me off the team for being disruptive and having a "history of violent crime" melts the moment her delayed response stumbles from the speaker.

'Cece? It's Diwa.'

If her phoning me in the first place weren't confusing, her obvious drunkenness definitely is.

'I know. I've got your contact saved...'

The only reply I get is heavy breathing.

'You fine?'

'Yes, I'm perfect.' Her chipper tone plummets, overtaken by agitation that's evident even in her slurred speech. 'I wanted to ring to say you're right–'

Her own laughter interrupts her, though it's owt but contagious.

Humidity crams into my room through the crack in the ceiling and the gap behind the loose skirting board. It makes an ideal environment for the maggots to breed in my stomach. I sink onto my bed, fanning my t-shirt to relieve the sweat that sticks it to my chest.

Diwa continues, entirely unaware that her words vice around my ribcage.

'I don't reckon I've ever said that before, "you're right"... But you're right. Everyone in our year hates me. And I can't really blame em, I am a total cunt. I'm unnecessarily snide and judgemental to everyone. I don't mean to. It just kind of happens.

'But you have to realise how shit it is to work so hard and get nothing for it. I try and nobody cares. Why bother?'

'Are you having a mental breakdown?' I ask. 'Cause I am not the person to come to for that. First of all, I don't care about you. Second–'

Diwa ploughs on over my words. 'But you're wrong about one bit: I don't think I'm better than you. I think I'm so much worse–'

I stop her before she can share owt else she wouldn't say sober. 'Where are you?'

'The party.'

'What party?'

'Sakda's party.'

Frost whips all humidity from the air. The only proof it were ever there is the cold tang left by sweat as it perishes. Fuck. Fuck. Couldn't she have got drunk anywhere else? Or phoned anyone else? Why would she phone me?

'You're at Sakda's...'

I clear my throat, standing up to search the mess on my floor for my hoodie. 'Just... just stay there. Don't drink owt else! I'm on my way.'

            Nicolás's face lights up when I step into the kitchen doorway. I stuff my hands into my pockets.

'Um...' I should've scripted what to say because, as soon as his fucking puppy eyes meet mine, my words stick to the tar that slathers my throat like cough syrup. 'I'm gonna go out.'

My hand flees my hoodie pouch to be captured by my teeth. I chew on my nails.

'Sorry. It's important.'

His smile wavers for a split second, though Nicolás recovers it quickly. The new one is too bright. 'Alright. What time should I expect you back?'

I shrug. Depends on what kind of a drunk Diwa is. She lives in Hulme and Sakda west of Moss Side Park; it'll take me a while to get her home even if she don't argue. 'Couple hours.'

It comes out as a suggestion, as though I'm asking for permission to extend a curfew which I don't have and wouldn't care about if I did.

Nicolás nods and pulls his unopened McDonald's bag closer. His second "alright" is an echo—drained and inauthentic.