SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

People like us

Maeve's Point of View

The movie had barely started when I knew I wouldn't make it through it.

My body was still.
My breath, not so much.

I could feel it again – the itch under my skin, the tight coil building behind my ribs, the pressure that had been rising steadily since I stepped out of that bathroom and realized Joey was gone.

He left me.

Left me here, in someone else's house, with someone who looked at me like I was something fragile and worth keeping whole.

The boy with the steady hands and sharp eyes.
The one who made tea without asking and bought movies just because I'd mentioned them in passing.
The one who looked at me like I was a puzzle he was desperate to solve, like he didn't mind how many broken pieces were in the box.

And it was unbearable.

The warmth.
The safety.
The concern.

It didn't feel like hope.
It felt like something worse.
It felt like home.

I could feel him beside me on the couch, not touching, not speaking, just breathing.

And I hated it.
Because it was easier to breathe around him.

And I couldn't afford that.
I couldn't afford to want this – to want him.

Because people like me didn't get love.
People like me got bruises and secrets.
People like me got used and discarded and forgotten.

People like me didn't sit on couches beside boys like him, watching fantasy films and pretending the world outside didn't exist.

I shifted slightly, hugging my knees tighter, the coat – his coat – scratching against my neck like a brand.

I hadn't meant to wear it.
But now it felt like a fucking spotlight.

I could feel him watching me from the corner of his eye.
I didn't look at him.

Because if I did, I'd see it again – that softness.
That stupid, aching kindness that wrapped around me like smoke.
And I was choking on it.

"Are you alright?" He asked eventually.

His voice was low.
Gentle.
Like it always was with me.

Like I was something worth gentleness.

I snapped. "Stop asking me that."

Johnny blinked. "I – What?"

"You keep asking like it'll change anything."

"I'm just trying to help."

"Well, stop." I stood, too fast, too sharp.
My ribs screamed, but I ignored it. "I don't need your help."

His expression tightened. "No, you just need to keep pretending nothing's wrong."

I froze. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"You don't know what it's like–"

"Then tell me." He snapped. "Tell me what it's like. Stop pretending like you're some untouchable fucking fortress and just say it."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

I turned my back to him, breath catching.

"You keep doing this." He said behind me. "Every time you get scared, you push. You push people away, you lash out, you lie."

I turned to face him fully now, arms crossed tight over my chest. "You don't know anything about me."