7 parts Ongoing MatureJoey 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.
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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.
