Once upon a time, Rian Lynch was just... Rian. The lad who'd steal chips off my plate and swear they tasted better because they weren't his. The one who'd knock on our front door without texting first because apparently that was "more dramatic." Then Liam died. People say grief comes in waves. They're wrong. It crashes into you all at once and leaves bits of you scattered everywhere, and you spend the rest of your life trying to gather them back together. Rian changed. The smile disappeared first. Then the jokes. Then the way he'd look at me like I mattered. Now he looks through me as if I'm just another stranger walking past. I know he blames my family. I know he blames me, even if he never says the words. The awful part is I don't think there's anything I could ever say that would make him believe otherwise. Sometimes I still catch myself looking for him in crowds. Sometimes I still hear something funny and think, God, Rian would love that. Then I remember. Grief made him angry. It made me quiet. I used to believe love fixed things. Now I think sometimes love just gives you another thing to grieve. *** Rylie O'Neill. Used to be the girl who could make me laugh even when I was in the foulest humour imaginable. She'd ramble on about stars, flowers, films that'd make anyone else cry, and somehow I'd sit there listening like every word mattered. Maybe because they did. She was too soft for this world. Always seeing the best in people, even when they gave her every reason not to. She believed everyone deserved another chance. I always thought she'd end up getting her heart broken because of it. Looks like I was right. There was a time when I thought she'd always be beside me. Truth is... there was a time I was starting to want more than that. Never said anything. Didn't need to. Then Liam died. And everything after that stopped making sense. People keep saying it wasn't the O'Neills' fault. Maybe it wasn't. Doesn't matter.

Joey bloody Lynch. The local junkie of Elk Terrace and, lucky me, my next-door neighbour. When I first moved here, I'll admit, I was curious. I mean, he's got that whole brooding, strung-out thing going on. I used to wonder, what's his deal? Who is he, really? What's the story behind the lanky lad who looks like he hasn't eaten in three days and acts like the world owes him something? Well, spoiler alert: he's a walking disaster. Personality-wise, he's an absolute car crash. Rude. Arrogant. Moody as sin. Honestly, one year. That's what Auntie Lisa promised. And then I can go. Back to London. Back to people who actually know how to hold a conversation without twitching every five seconds. But here I am, stuck in some grim corner of Ireland with Joey Lynch keeping me awake every bloody night. He's in my head like a bad pop song. And maybe that's what hate does. It doesn't burn hot-it festers. Keeps you up. Gnaws at you. And yet, for some infuriating reason, I can't look away. *** Olivia bleedin' Smith. Lives right next door, and thinks she's queen of the estate. Walks around like she's got a crown on her head and diamonds in her shoes. You'd take one look at her and think, "Ah, she's sweet. Bit posh. Keeps her head down." But nah. That girl's got fire in her belly and a tongue like a feckin' dagger. She's the type that'll look you dead in the eye, tell you exactly what she thinks of you, and not even flinch. And trust me, she's told me plenty. Thinks she's above it all - above me. Gives me this look sometimes, like I'm some grubby stain on her fancy trainers. All sharp jawlines and pouty lips, always flicking her hair like she's in some perfume ad. She's insufferable. Stubborn as hell. Always has to have the last word. And yet... there's something about her. Something I can't shake. She's like nicotine. One glare from her and I'm hooked. Can't decide if I want to scream at her or kiss her just to shut her up.

Brian O'Neill. The coldest fella Tommen's has ever seen-or so they say. And I get it. He walks down the halls like he owns the place, never says much unless he has to, face like it's carved out of marble, always unreadable. He's like a winter prince-untouchable, a bit terrifying, and way too beautiful to be real. But he's mine. He's my boyfriend. He makes my heart beat like a bloody war drum every time he so much as looks at me with that stormy gaze of his. Protective to a fault. He'd burn the whole world down if it meant keeping his siblings safe. They're everything to him-his whole bleeding heart, even if he acts like he hasn't got one. And he fights. Not schoolyard scuffles. Not rugby scraps. I'm talking about underground, illegal fights. The kind you don't talk about. The kind you pray he walks away from. *** Daisy Biggs. If sunshine had a body and a runway walk, it'd be her. She's Ireland's it girl-covers of magazines, Vogue campaigns, CHANEL deals before she was even out of third year. Everyone knows her name. Every girl wants to be her, and every lad stares a bit too long when she walks past. But she's mine. She's my girlfriend. Yeah-me. The cold bastard with blood on his knuckles and bruises under his hoodie. I don't know how I pulled her, honest to God. Maybe 'cause she sees something in me no one else bothers to look for. But we keep it quiet. No one at Tommen's knows. Can't risk the papers finding out, or the other students. She's soft with me. Gentle in a way that makes me forget I've got cuts across my ribs or a busted lip. When I show up to her place, bleeding or shaking or just not right in the head after a fight, she never freaks. She just pulls me in, cleans me up, and wraps her arms around me like I'm something worth saving. I know she hates the fights. Hates what they do to me. Hates what I have to do to win. But what am I supposed to do? When you've got a da who treats you like a weapon, you learn real quick that choices are a luxury.

Liam Lynch. Everyone says his name like it explains him. The town's golden boy. Lizzie likes him. Teachers like him. Old women in the shop like him. He remembers birthdays and asks about your granny and carries bags without being asked. He is always there. That's the part I can't get my head around. He stands too close sometimes. Not in a scary way. Just... close. Like he's afraid if he steps back, I'll disappear. He says he loves me. I nod when he says it because that's what you do. I don't know what love is meant to feel like in the body. People say it's warm or fizzy or like fireworks, but my chest just feels the same as always-tight, flat, like someone's pressed pause. Sometimes my stomach hurts around him, but I don't know if that means something good or something bad. Hunger and nerves feel the same to me. Fear and excitement too. Everything is all mixed up, like colours bleeding together. He doesn't leave me alone. Ever. If I walk home, he walks with me. If I sit somewhere quiet, he appears like he's been summoned. People say I'm lucky. They say he's protective. I don't know the difference between protection and being trapped. Sometimes he smiles at me and my chest tightens sharper than usual. Sometimes I want him to stop talking. Sometimes I want him to stay. I don't know which feeling is which. I don't know if what he calls love is what I feel, or if what I feel is nothing at all. *** Maeve O'Neill ruined me the second I saw her. Not in a loud way. Quiet. Permanent. She doesn't say much, but I don't need words from her. I'll read the silences. I'll fill the gaps. I'll love her enough for both of us if I have to. Even when she looks at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle and can't find the edges, I don't get angry. I get patient. I can wait. I don't care if it costs me. I don't care if it hurts. I'll protect her. I'll help her. I'll stay beside her until she understands what love is-or until I disappear trying.

AJ Lynch is the bane of my existence. He's like a rock in my shoe-small enough to ignore for a little while, but always there, annoying me until I lose my mind. He's the golden boy, the one who gets perfect grades, charms every teacher, and never steps a toe out of line-or so his parents think. Joey and Aoife Lynch's pride and joy, right? Wrong. Because here's the thing: AJ isn't as perfect as everyone thinks he is. He has a secret. A big one. And I, Catherine Biggs, the girl he loves to torment, am the only one who knows it. AJ Lynch is a racer. Yep, that kind of racer-the illegal kind. The kind that sneaks out at night to tear up the streets and put that shiny car of his to work. The golden boy isn't so golden after all, and trust me, I'd love nothing more than to use it against him. Too bad he's too clever for his own good. *** Catherine Biggs. The mean girl of Tommen School. The girl every guy pretends to hate but can't stop looking at. She's the one who gets a kick out of tormenting people, though her favorite targets seem to be boys. Lucky us. If you say anything remotely out of line about her or her little circle of friends, she's on you faster than you can blink. And honestly? She scares most of the lads here. Me? I'm counting down the days until she's out of my life for good. This is our last year, and soon I won't have to see her stupid curly blonde hair, or those blue eyes that are just... too much. I swear, her beauty is all she has going for her. Inside? She's rotten, blacker than black. The kind of girl who smiles while cutting you down. And yet... somehow, she's still in my head. And then there's her boyfriend. Cillian Wilkinson. All charm and dimples, like a walking ad for "Ireland's Most Eligible Teen." Everyone loves him-teachers, parents, even the lads. Except me. I hate the way he puts his arm around her, like she's his and no one else's. Because that's the problem with Catherine Biggs-she's not just in my head. She's under my skin.

Rory Kavanagh. The best rugby player Tommen has ever seen-well, besides his da, obviously. Johnny Kavanagh. The Johnny Kavanagh. Our parents are basically joint at the hip, best mates since they were kids. And naturally, me and Rory just... became mates too. That's the deal. That's what we said we'd be. Friends. Right? Friends. But like-come on. Have you seen him? His abs? That man has a six-pack like he's sculpted from marble. His hair? Brown and silky, like-like a shampoo ad or somethin'. And those eyes? The kind of blue that makes you forget your own name. I swear to God, I'm not even being dramatic. So yeah... maybe I've a teeny, tiny, miniscule crush on him. Can you blame me? No. No, you can't. I won't hear it. But I'm not saying a thing. No way. What if he just laughs? That'd kill me. So for now, I'll just pretend I don't stare at him for longer than is normal when he talks. For now, it's just friendship. Grand. ...But what if he does feel the same? *** Bethany Gibson. Jaysus. She's been my best friend since we were in playschool, like actually since nappies. She's pure chaos-loud, mad, always in trouble for something-but I wouldn't change a thing about her. Not one thing. She's class. Gorgeous too. Not just like "oh she's grand," no-proper gorgeous. Her blonde curls bounce when she laughs, and I swear it's like the sun's just following her around. Her eyes? Silver. Like not even grey-silver, like a flipping fairy or something. Every time she looks at me, I forget what I was saying. Which is not ideal when you're trying to seem normal, right? I've fancied her since I was about seven. Maybe six. But what am I supposed to do? Tell her? What if she just laughs and goes, "Ah you're gas," and then pats me on the head like I'm some lost puppy? I'd actually evaporate from shame. But then again... what if she does like me back? What if all this time I was too scared to see it?

Conor Kavanagh. The heartthrob of Tommen College. The biggest playboy in the school - cocky smirk, rugby jersey practically sewn onto him, always with a smart comment and that maddening wink. He's friendly, charming, flirty as hell. The kind of lad who'd carry your bag for you and somehow make it seem like your idea. But don't let that fool you - he's trouble. All sharp jawlines and swagger. And somehow, he's decided I'm his next bloody charity case. I hate it. I hate how he shows up when I don't ask, how he looks at me like I'm breakable. I don't need saving - I've got it sorted. The drink, the pills, the temper - all of it. My mess, not his. And every time I tell him to back off, to leave me be, he just gets closer, like I'm speaking in code. I don't need his pity or his perfect face. I don't need him. So why does part of me keep hoping he'll show up again tomorrow? *** Sinead Biggs. The reigning queen of Tommen. Sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, and terrifying in heels. Everyone thinks she's just Cath's little sister - until she opens her gob and makes half the school cry before lunch. She walks those halls like she owns them, and honestly? She kind of does. The lads are scared of her. The girls want to be her. And me? I'm hopelessly, pathetically into her. Everyone knows it. My mates won't shut up about it. Even when she's tearing strips off me with that mouth of hers, I'm there grinning like a gobshite. Because deep down, I remember. I remember when we used to be best friends. When she used to laugh like a lunatic at my stupid jokes, when her hand would brush mine and neither of us would move away. But then came Owen Rice - the prick. Then came that night. The accident. The hospital. And when she came back, she wasn't the same. She'd built up walls with barbed wire. She'd become someone colder, louder, crueler. But I still see her. The girl I knew. And every once in a while, when no one's looking, I think she sees me too.

Finn Gibson. Number seven on the rugby team. A gentleman, proper like. Always opening doors and saying things like "after you" and "you alright there?" in this soft voice that somehow makes you feel seen. He's funny too - not the show-off type of funny, more the kind where you're halfway through laughing before you realise it was even a joke. Real clever wit, quiet like. It's not fair, honestly. And he drums, like actually properly drums, not just tapping out rhythms on the school desk like every other lad in Tommen. He's in a band and all. Do I like him? Yeah. I like him loads. More than I should. But this isn't that kind of story. I come from a house where everything's heavy. Where things crack and break and no one says sorry. Where nice things don't last, and if you want something - really want something - it gets used against you. You don't let your heart out in a place like mine. You learn to nod and keep quiet and do what Da says, even when you hate it, even when it's wrong. That's just how it is. So when Finn looks at me like I matter - really, properly matter - I want to believe it. I want to tell him I think about him when I fall asleep. So yeah. I like Finn Gibson. But liking someone like him... it feels like trying to hold light in your hand. Beautiful. Impossible. *** Mina O'Neill. Jesus, I don't even know where to start with her. She's the most beautiful human being I've ever seen in my life, and I mean that with my whole chest. She moves like she doesn't even touch the ground. A ballerina, and not the stuck-up kind either. She's always working, always rehearsing, and when she talks about dance, it's like watching someone light up from the inside. And me? I'm just... me. Watching her from the side of things. Hoping. I think she knows. I know she knows. She's not daft. But there's something holding her back. I don't know what. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's something in her life I don't see. But I'm not giving up.

Brendan Clearly. He was the lad I liked since I was barely out of pigtails, the one who never slagged me off when the rest of the boys thought it was gas. He was different. Always smiling, always asking me if I'd eaten, like some little mammy trapped in a seventeen-year-old fella's body. It sounds stupid, but those tiny things kept me going. And then I went and wrecked it. Not just with him-no, I managed to shatter it with all of them. My friends, the ones who made the halls feel less lonely, the ones who kept me tethered here when the world felt too heavy. Gone. Because of me. Just a mistake, that's all it was, but a mistake that cost me everything. And now when I see him across the yard, laughing with the others, it's like a knife. He doesn't even look my way. And I deserve that, don't I? *** Caoimhe Kavanagh. Once upon a time she was my best mate. The kind of girl you'd sit on a wall with for hours, talking about nothing and everything. She was soft, kind, never the type to go looking for trouble. But now? I hardly recognise her. She's gone cold, sharp, always hanging 'round with that crowd-the type of people you know are only bad news. Ciggies tucked in their sleeves, mouths full of poison. And she's right there in the middle of it, like she belongs to them now. Part of me wants to write her off, tell myself she's not the Caoimhe I knew. That girl's dead and gone. But... I can't. I remember too much. The way she used to laugh, the way she'd defend you even when you were being a gobshite, the way she cared more than she ever let on. That's still inside her, I swear it is. I don't care how hard she tries to hide behind the mask she's wearing now-I know my friend is in there somewhere. And I'll drag her back if I have to. Because she's worth it.

Caden Holland. Honest to God - if trouble had a face, it'd be his. Always arguing. Always correcting. Like he's convinced he's the smartest lad in the room, even when he's talking pure shite. He's got those eyes - dark, quiet, watching everything but never giving anything back. You'd swear he's judging you for breathing wrong. And people talk, don't they? Junkie. Dealer. Bad news. All whispered, but loud enough so you know exactly who they're on about. So I've promised myself one thing: stay away. No smiles. No chats. No pity. Because lads like him drag storms behind them - and you don't even realise you're drowning until you're already under. He's dangerous. Not the loud, show-off kind. The quiet kind. The kind that makes you feel seen and threatened all at once. And I swear on my life - I'm not getting pulled into whatever darkness follows Caden Holland around. *** Mallory Lynch. The name alone sits wrong in my mouth, like something sour. Daughter of the man who put my da behind bars - that's what I was raised on. Fact, not feeling. She doesn't look like danger. That's the trick. She laughs too easily, tilts her head when she listens, pretends she doesn't see the way rooms shift when she walks in. There's a crack in her somewhere. You can hear it if you listen past the cool-girl act. A quiet panic. Secrets rattling around behind her ribs. My plan? Simple. Keep my head. Stay patient. People like her eventually show you who they really are. And when she does - when the truth cracks wide open - I'll be there to watch the Lynch name drop lower than ours ever did. Not out of anger. Out of balance. Because Mallory Lynch smiles like she has nothing to hide - and I know for a fact she's hiding everything.