I've lost any sense of time, but it's well into the evening, I think – the night's in full swing. Kibou is the night's locale - a swanky Japanese jazz lounge, hired out at Kitty's request, of course.

The jazz is live, and every time the sax toots its cool blues, the sound bounces off of the clinking crystal glasses and the uproarious cheers of the room when our grinning chef tosses the contents of his pan up in a formidable burst of flames.

Eric and I are right at the head of the table – the heart of the perfect party. Except, it doesn't feel quite so perfect.

It looks it, without a doubt. It's bright-eyed merriment as far as the eye can see, and even where it can't, with giddy laughter pouring from even the darkest corners of the lounge.

And the Macklins, Jesus. I don't know how they do it - go on like this, I mean. Looking at them you'd think nothing was, ever had been or ever could be, wrong. They're all smiles and 'smizes' and social nights with soft lights like this one. They're snapshots of faultlessness in perfect lighting constantly, and I can't get my head around the idea of having a picture-perfect face, a picture-perfect life, at every second.

At intervals, Nelly shoots me glare as though when we accidentally catch eyes it's my fault. I understand it, though. As far as I, or anyone else, can tell, she's back to her condescending, cool-headed self. But I know she was broken up less than an hour ago. I know that she's still haunted by her little sister's death. I know she's human, and I think the thought pisses her off.

The birthday boy's on my right, oozing effortless excellence with the rest of them. With one hand on base of his champagne flute, and a gentle, gracious beam as he chats away, his charisma pervades like an expensive cologne. What the hell do I say to him?

"On the house," comes a kindly voice from behind, as a pair brightly coloured margarita glasses are set down on my left between Pip and I, "for the gentleman... and the beautiful lady."

The waiter's in all black, from his mop of curls to his Converses, save for a name tag and a thin chain around his neck, both gold in colour. When he carefully sets the drinks, crimson, sour-scented and chilled, he only gives us his near-black eyes for a moment, to flash a cautious smile.

I feel my lashes tickle my cheek when my gaze drops,

"Oh, um, I don't think we ord-"

Pip and I catch eyes when his sandy brows crease, and he blinks, bewildered.

"Evangeline..." he holds the bowl of his glass comfortably in his palm, "free fruity alcohol. This is the part when we say 'thank you' to the dishy man and start sipping. You, sir, are a top lad."

I blush as I murmur my thanks - he is dishy - and the wide-shouldered waiter bows out with the corner of his lips turned up in amusement.

"Oh my God," I hum once I take a sip, and Pip grins his salud with a cherry-red tongue.

The swing and song of the jazz band lulls momentarily. It's only for a second, and as soon as it passes, the slender saxophonist strikes them up again, but a second is long enough for the truth to pounce, and it's biting and bold, and were you really stupid enough to think that any amount of music could drown it out? He's broken. He didn't tell you.

Without missing a beat of his conversation, Eric moves a hand over my knee, exposed in the slit of my dress, and gives it a reassuring rub. I love when he's so unaware, so unpretentious with his affection, but I wince a little at his touch because his hand is cold, and his sister is dead.

He's beaming as he chats away, his blue eyes wide with intrigue, and he looks happy. Honestly, unquestionably happy.

I wish I didn't know what I know.

I wish I trusted his smile.

I wish this was simpler.

I sigh, short and sharp. I need noise, distraction, racket too loud for thinking, and luckily there's no shortage of that around here.

"Auby, you've got to back me up here, mate!" A bloke with wild butter blonde hair shakes an insistent finger at Eric, roaring riotously. Eric says he a 'mate from uni'. All I know about him so far as that he's rather loud and he gets drunk rather fast, but he seems to know an awful lot about everyone at the table, and insists on telling all the stories he can remember, most of which result in the subjects of the stories blushing furiously and denying. Boldly, he's made Louisa his next mark.

"Aubs, come on," the large lad pants between laughs, "tell me Lolly didn't try it on with all three of the Vice-Chancellor's daughters in first year! You can't, you'd be lying!"

Eric raises his hand from his drink in mock-surrender, laughing graciously as he shakes his head,

"Oh no. You're not dragging me into this one, Jonty. I refuse to get involved."

Louisa's over by the bar, grinning smugly into her drink. Her lips swipe her red-coated lips before she calls out,

"Jonty's only jealous because he had his eyes on one of them."

"A-ha! An admission."

"I've not admitted a thing."

"Unbelievable, you are," he laughs, and he's playing about but his look is the same as everybody's when they've been around Louisa and liquor for a while - awestruck attraction. Sure enough, he presses her for the sordid details. "Go on then, how'd you pull it off? Sneak in when the others were off shopping?"

"Jonty. Don't offend me," Louisa says, and she feigns her disapproval with a hand to her collarbone, "I consider myself much more of a... multi-tasker."

Jonty's riotously amused by her response, and as she laughs, tossing her long hair over her shoulder, I think about how the girl sort of astounds me.

Though guys like her are far from rare, I've never met a girl so sure and unashamed of every wink and whim. If I didn't struggle to read her so much (and wasn't slightly intimidated by her), I'd think she was a total badass.

When I glance at him, Eric's watching them amusedly, his eyes darting as he follows their repartee, and he looks so goddamned happy. Is it real? Is any of it?

"Is it good or is it good?" ‌ He asks me suddenly, turning to meet my gaze. I'm too out of it to know what he's even talking about, until he eyes dart down to my plate. Oh, the food!

Eric swore up and down that the octopus sushi was the best thing on the menu, and when I scowled dubiously, he made me try some of his. I'll give it to him, it not as bad as I thought it would be.

My jaw seems to start moving on its own in some biological effort to snap me out the haze, as my teeth break up the chewy pieces of sashimi in my mouth.

I smile at him and roll my eyes,

"It's good, I guess..."

He chuckles because he knows I'm being stubborn, and he squeezes my knee again when he manoeuvres a suspicious-looking green roll from his plate onto mine with his chopsticks.

"Now try this one."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Eric, it's blue."

"Evie, it's nori."

"It looks nori-ble."

He rests his hand on his little chopping board, narrowing his eyes.

"Don't make me."

I raise an eyebrow suspiciously,

"Make you what?"

"Neow!" Eric cranes his neck as he flies the tiny blue roll in front of my face, making the nasal aeroplane noise each time it passes my lips. I can't help but cast a nervous glance around the room first.

Nobody's looking. It's just us. We're a thousand miles from home on the hill, eating food I couldn't afford with all of my piggy banks, but we're us.

"Piss off," I laugh, my teeth making a snapping sound as they clamp down over the chopsticks. I chew in pretend contemplation for a moment. "It's alright," I shrug, looking away.

He squeezes again, only higher up, and I have to bite my tongue to hold in a squeal.

"You, my love, are the most stubborn eater."

If I look right into his eyes and focus hard enough, I can pretend we're home again. We're making pie and watching Bake Off, and his words and touch are exactly the same, but there are no people around us; no secrets between us. The vision makes this moment even sweeter, and I beam up at him with too many teeth,

"And you looove me for it?"

When he chuckles, he turns his face away from me, and bashful sincerity in his eyes when he faces me again might be the most adorable thing I've ever seen.

"Something like that..."

Now, in my Thursday daydream, I glance up at the clock to see how long it is before the clock strikes twelve. Then, with the daylight from the hatch making his eyes glass blue, he brings me back down with an I love you sealed with a kiss. Instead he says with a sigh,

"D'you reckon they have an off switch?" ‌ I cock my head in confusion, but when I tune back in from the reverie, I hear them calling. Auby! Aubs!

Another flock of floppy-haired young men whose fun seems to depend on Eric call him from the opposite side of the room.

He makes my heart melt with our laced fingers and lingering looks while the boys in men's clothing call out his name, but I know he wants to go over. I see how alive he is when he's the magnetic man.

My smile's pouty, if not a little resigned. I know how this ends, and he knows that I know.

"I'll be five minutes," he says, insistent as he gets up, although we both know he'll be longer, "five."

I roll my eyes as our hands untangle, and my hand falls into my lap,

"Go have your fun, Birthday Boy."

It's silly, but I watch him with quietly eager hope, waiting for the sign, our sign, and he tosses me my hope on a silken string when he makes a 'T' sign with his hands and mouths our promise before he disappears into the crowd. Thursday.

I exhale, and I'm high on him as I trace patterns in the table with a stupid smile. But the slowly-growing starry-eyed smile drops in an instant. My mindless tracings find a moon in the marble top patterns, and my hand snaps to my breast like it's touched a fresh flame.

Just like that, at the sight of a bloody crescent moon on the table, all the heavy thoughts suspended in the air fall and weigh me down. My airy peace has already disappeared into the loud crowd.

'Moon was our light in the darkness'

'bringing home girls his dead sister's age'

"Getting a drink." I only say it out loud to interrupt the plaguing echoes, but Pip pauses his conversation to tilt his head at me, and then his pink drink in offer.

I shake my head, mouthing 'something stronger' as I back away towards the bar, and when he grins proudly because he thinks I'm getting into the party mood, I let him believe it. Maybe in a few drinks' time I will be, if anything on this cocktail menu is potent enough.