The Loudest Voice In The Room

Chapter One: The Return

The bus smells like wet coats and someone's leftover McDonald's. I sit near the back, earbuds in but no music playing, watching the rain streak sideways across the window. Mum dropped me at the stop this morning with that look on her face — the one that tries to be casual but isn't. She asked if I had my lunch, if I'd texted her when I got there, if I was sure I was ready. I said yes to all three even though the last one was a lie.

The college gates look the same. Red brick, blue railings, the faded mural someone painted two years ago for charity. I'd walked through them a thousand times before everything happened, and now they feel like the entrance to somewhere I don't belong anymore. A few people glance at me as I walk across the car park. I don't know if they know or if I'm just imagining it. Either way, I keep my head down and my hands in my pockets.

Registration is in the common room. It's already loud when I push through the double doors — voices layered over each other, chairs scraping, someone's Bluetooth speaker playing something tinny and relentless. I spot Jake immediately. He's sprawled across one of the sofas near the window, trainers up on the armrest, holding court with the usual crowd. His laugh cuts through everything else. It always does.

We used to sit together, before. Used to share a desk in maths, used to queue for lunch together, used to send each other stupid memes at two in the morning. Then I disappeared for three months and everything changed. Or maybe I changed. Maybe both.

I find a seat near the radiator, away from the main cluster. A few people nod at me. One girl — Chloe, I think — gives me a small smile. I smile back, or at least I try to. My face feels stiff, like I've forgotten how the muscles work.

Then Jake sees me.

"Oi, mate!" he calls across the room, his face lighting up. "You're back!"

Everyone turns. My chest tightens. He's standing now, arms wide like he's welcoming me home from war or something. A few people laugh, not unkindly, just because Jake's always performing and they're his audience. He bounds over — he doesn't walk, he bounds — and pulls me into a hug before I can react. He smells like Lynx Africa and energy drinks.

"Fucking hell, it's good to see you," he says, pulling back but keeping his hands on my shoulders. "Proper good. How you feeling?"

"Yeah, alright."

"Yeah?" His eyes search my face like he's looking for proof. "You're sure? You look a bit…" He trails off, waves a hand vaguely. "You know."

I don't know what to say. My throat feels tight.

"But you're back now, that's the main thing," Jake says, grinning again. "That's all that matters, innit? Moving forward."

He claps my shoulder one more time and heads back to his sofa. A few people call out greetings as he passes — Jake collects people like that, always has. I sit down slowly, my bag still on my lap, my hands curled tight around the straps. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.

Later, in English, I sit at the back. Miss Kaur is talking about Othello and everyone's half-listening, half-scrolling. Jake's in this class too, two rows ahead. We used to pass notes during boring bits, stupid drawings mostly, trying to make each other laugh. Now there's just space between us.

At one point he turns around and catches my eye, gives me a double thumbs-up and a grin. I manage a nod. He seems satisfied with that.

At lunch I go to the canteen but don't queue. I buy a bottle of water and sit at one of the tables near the door. Jake and the others are at our old table — their table now — and I can hear his voice carrying across the room. Someone's telling a story and he's reacting to every beat, loud and engaged. That's Jake. He fills spaces.

I sip the water slowly and check my phone. Mum's texted twice already. I reply with a thumbs-up emoji and put the phone face-down on the table.

Then someone sits opposite me. I look up. It's Ash. He's in my history class, quiet, wears band shirts I've never heard of. We've never really spoken.

"Alright?" he says.

"Yeah."

He opens a Tesco meal deal and starts peeling the film off a sandwich. For a moment neither of us says anything. Then he looks at me properly.

"You doing okay?"

I shrug. "Yeah. Fine."

He nods, doesn't push it. We sit in silence for a while. It's not uncomfortable. When the bell goes, he stands and picks up his bag.

"See you around," he says.

"Yeah. See you."

I watch him leave, then follow a few seconds later. The corridor is packed and loud. Someone brushes past me and I flinch without meaning to. I make it to the toilets and lock myself in a cubicle, leaning against the door until my breathing steadies.

By the time I get home, I'm exhausted. Mum's in the kitchen, pretending to be busy with the washing-up. She turns when I come in, her face bright and careful.

"How was it?"

"Fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She smiles, relieved, and I go upstairs before she can ask anything else. I lie on my bed with my shoes still on and stare at the ceiling. My phone buzzes. It's a message in the group chat — the one with Jake and the others that I haven't left but haven't really been part of for months. Someone's posted a meme about exam stress. Jake's replied with three crying-laughing emojis, then: "Mate you should've SEEN his face when Kaur called on him today 💀"

I scroll past it. There's another message, from earlier, that I must have missed: "Good to have you back man 👊"

I mute the chat and close my eyes.

The first day is done. I've survived it. I tell myself that's enough.

Chapter Two: The Loudest Voice

By the end of the first week, I've worked out a routine. I arrive late enough that most people are already in registration, so I don't have to stand around making small talk. I sit in the same spot every day — back corner, near the radiator — and I keep my earbuds in even when there's nothing playing. It's a signal: don't bother me. Most people respect it.

Jake doesn't. But I don't think he realises he should.

On Friday, he's holding court again, louder than usual. Someone's birthday, maybe, or just because it's the weekend. He's talking about a party at Liv's house tomorrow night, how it's going to be "biblical," how everyone has to come. People are laughing, making plans, someone's already creating a Snapchat group.

Then Jake looks over at me.

"Oi, you coming?"

I freeze. Everyone's looking now.

"To Liv's," he clarifies. "Tomorrow. You in?"

I don't know what to say. I don't want to go. I don't want to be in a room full of people pretending everything's normal. But I also don't want to say no in front of everyone, because then Jake will make a thing of it. Not to be cruel. Just because that's what Jake does — he makes things bigger, louder, more.

"Maybe," I say.

"Maybe?" Jake grins. "Come on, mate. Do you good to get out, yeah? You've been proper quiet all week. Need to get you back to normal."

A few people laugh. Not cruelly, just because Jake's said something and they're conditioned to respond. My face burns.

"I'll think about it," I say.

"Sound. I'll put you on the list." He turns back to his group, already moving on to the next thing. "Right, so who's bringing speakers?"

I pull my hood up and stare at the floor until registration ends.

In the corridor after, Ash catches up with me.

"You actually going to that?" he asks.

I shrug. "Probably not."

"Fair. Liv's parties are always a mess anyway."

We walk together towards the history block. Ash doesn't ask me anything else, doesn't try to fill the silence. I'm grateful for that.

That afternoon, Jake catches me by the lockers. Just the two of us for once, his mates already gone ahead.

"Hey, listen," he says, and his voice is different. Quieter. "Can we talk for a sec?"

I nod, wary.

He leans against the lockers, suddenly looking uncomfortable. Jake's never uncomfortable. "I just wanted to say, like… I'm glad you're back. Properly glad."

"Thanks."

"And I know things have been shit for you. I get that."

I don't say anything. I don't think he does get it, not really, but I can tell he's trying.

"I've been thinking about it, yeah?" He runs a hand through his hair. "About what you did. And like, I know it was serious and everything. But I just want you to know that you're alright now. You're here. That's what matters."

My stomach twists.

"And like, obviously people would've been sad if you'd… you know. If it had worked." He says it quickly, like ripping off a plaster. "But life would've moved on eventually, wouldn't it? That's just how it is. People heal. So you don't need to feel guilty or whatever, because no one would've… I mean, everyone would've been upset, but not forever. Does that make sense?"

I stare at him. My mouth is dry.

"I'm just saying you don't need to worry about it," Jake continues, apparently encouraged by my silence. "Like, you're here now, and that's all that matters. Fresh start and all that. Yeah?"

"Yeah," I manage.

"Sound." He grins, relieved, and claps my shoulder. "Right, I gotta run. See you tomorrow?"

He's gone before I can respond, jogging down the corridor to catch up with someone. I stand there by the lockers, my bag hanging from one hand, trying to process what just happened.

He was trying to help. I know he was. In Jake's mind, he was giving me a pep talk, telling me not to dwell on things, trying to make me feel better about being alive. But all I can hear is: no one would've cared. Not really. Not forever.

I take the long way to the bus stop.

When I get home, Mum asks how my day was. I say fine. She asks if I've made plans for the weekend. I say no. She hovers in the doorway of my room for a moment, like she wants to say something else, but eventually she just nods and leaves.

I lie on my bed and scroll through my phone. The group chat is still going, people sending voice notes and selfies and stupid videos. Jake's posted a picture of himself in the gym, flexing, caption: "Getting ready for tomorrow 💪🔥". Fifteen people have already liked it.

I mute my phone and close my eyes.

Saturday comes. I don't go to Liv's party. I tell Mum I'm tired, that I need a quiet night. She looks worried but doesn't push it. I spend the evening in my room, reading and half-watching YouTube videos. At some point my phone starts buzzing — people posting to their stories, blurry videos of someone doing shots, Jake's voice loud in the background. I don't watch them.

On Monday, everyone's talking about the party. Apparently someone threw up in Liv's mum's car. Apparently Jake kissed two different people. Apparently it was, in Jake's words, "legendary."

I sit in my corner and try to be invisible. It mostly works.

Then, in the middle of registration, Jake bounds over and drops into the seat next to me.

"Mate, you missed a belter. Where were you?"

"Just didn't fancy it," I say.

"Didn't fancy it?" He looks genuinely confused. "Why not?"

"Just… wasn't feeling it."

"You need to start feeling it then." He's grinning, but there's something else underneath. "Seriously, you're being weird. You never used to be like this."

"Yeah, well."

"I'm not having a go," he says quickly. "I just mean, like, you used to be up for stuff. Now you're always off on your own. It's doing my head in a bit, if I'm honest."

I look at him. "Doing your head in?"

"Yeah, like…" He shifts, uncomfortable again. "I don't know what to say to you anymore. It's like walking on eggshells. I'm trying to help but you're not giving me anything to work with."

My chest tightens. "I didn't ask you to help."

"I know, but we're mates, aren't we? That's what mates do."

Are we still mates? I don't know. We used to be. But that feels like a different life.

"I just need time," I say.

"Yeah, alright. Fair enough." He stands up, back to his usual energy. "But seriously, next party, you're coming. I'll drag you there myself if I have to."

He ruffles my hair like I'm a kid and walks off. I sit there, hair messed up, feeling hollow.

After registration, Ash finds me by the lockers.

"You alright?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Jake's a lot sometimes."

"He means well."

"Does he?" Ash raises an eyebrow. "Or does he just like being the guy who fixes things?"

I don't have an answer to that.

Chapter Three: Breaking Points

The next few weeks blur together. I fall into a rhythm: go to lessons, sit with Ash at lunch, avoid Jake when I can, tolerate him when I can't. He keeps trying. I'll give him that. He messages me memes, invites me to things, asks how I'm doing in that loud, public way of his. I know he thinks he's being a good friend. I know he doesn't understand why I keep pulling away.

In history, Mr Peters pairs us up for a project on the Cold War. Ash and I end up together, which is a relief. We decide to meet at his house after college to work on it.

Ash's room is exactly what I expected: posters of bands I've never heard of, a guitar in the corner, books stacked in precarious piles. His mum brings us tea and biscuits without being asked. It feels safe here. Quiet.

"Your mum's nice," I say.

"She's alright." Ash opens his laptop. "Right, so, Berlin Wall?"

We work in comfortable silence for a while, then drift into talking about other things. Music, mostly. Ash plays me a song by a band called The Antlers and it's sad and beautiful and makes my chest ache in a way that feels almost good.

"You ever write music?" I ask.

"Tried to. Not very good at it." He picks up the guitar, plays a few chords. "You?"

"No. I don't really do anything creative."

"You should try. It helps sometimes. Getting stuff out."

I think about that. Maybe he's right.

When I get home, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Mum notices.

"Good day?"

"Yeah. Went to a friend's house."

She smiles, proper and bright. "That's lovely."

The next day, in the common room, I'm reading when Jake appears with a group of his mates. They're in that restless mood teenage boys get when they've got too much energy and nowhere to put it.

"Oi, watch this," Jake says, and he's holding something. A knife. Not a big one, just a pen knife, the kind people use for camping. But still.

He's messing about with it, flicking it open and closed, and then he starts lunging toward people with it. Not actually threatening, just playing, getting reactions. A couple of people laugh nervously. Someone tells him to stop being an idiot.

Then he turns to me.

"Oi, you're not even watching," he says, grinning. He makes a mock lunge in my direction, the knife pointed at me.

I don't react. I can't. I'm frozen, staring at the blade, and suddenly I'm not in the common room anymore. I'm somewhere else, someone else's hand holding a knife, and I can't breathe, can't move, can't—

"Alright, alright, don't be boring," Jake says, lowering the knife. Then his grin turns into something sharper. "What, don't tell me you tried to slit your wrists or something."

The room goes very quiet.

I hear blood rushing in my ears. My hands are shaking.

"Jake," someone says. Liv, maybe.

But Jake's still talking, oblivious. "Nah, I'm joking. You didn't, did you? You did the pill thing." He says it casually, like we're discussing what I had for breakfast.

I stand up. My legs feel unsteady but I manage it.

"Where you going?" Jake asks.

I don't answer. I just walk out. Behind me I hear voices — Jake saying something, someone else responding, but it's all muffled like I'm underwater. I make it to the toilets and lock myself in a cubicle. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. I press my palms against my eyes until I see spots.

It takes ten minutes before I can breathe properly again. When I come out, Ash is waiting by the sinks.

"I saw you leave," he says. "You okay?"

"Not really."

He nods. "Jake's a fucking idiot."

"He doesn't know." My voice sounds strange, distant. "About the knife. About what happened before."

"What happened?"

I shake my head. I can't talk about it. Not here, not now.

"Come on," Ash says. "Let's get out of here."

We skip last period and walk to the park instead. It's cold but clear, and we sit on the swings like we're kids again. Ash doesn't push me to talk. He just sits there, dragging his feet through the dirt, waiting.

Eventually, I tell him. Not everything. But enough. About the person who came at me with a knife two years ago, outside a corner shop, just random violence that left me with a scar on my ribs and nightmares for months. About how it was one of the things that built up, one of the reasons everything got so bad last year.

"Fuck," Ash says quietly.

"Yeah."

"And Jake just—"

"He doesn't know. No one does, really. Just my mum and the police."

"Still. He shouldn't have been messing about with a knife in the first place. That's psycho behaviour."

I almost laugh. "That's Jake, though. He doesn't think."

"That's not an excuse."

"I know."

We sit in silence for a while. Then Ash says, "You gonna say something to him?"

"I don't know."

"You should."

"What's the point? He won't get it."

"Maybe not. But you should still say it. For you."

I think about that all evening. Mum asks if something's wrong. I tell her I'm fine. She doesn't believe me but she doesn't push it either.

That night I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I realize Ash is right. I do need to say something. Not for Jake. For me.

Chapter Four: The Confrontation

I avoid Jake for the rest of the week. It's not hard — I've had plenty of practice. But on Friday, he corners me after English.

"Mate, what's going on?" He looks genuinely confused. "You've been blanking me all week."

"I need to talk to you," I say.

"Yeah, alright. What's up?"

"Not here."

We end up outside, near the bike sheds where no one else is around. Jake leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, waiting.

"The thing with the knife," I start. "That wasn't okay."

He frowns. "What? I was just messing about."

"You pointed a knife at me."

"Barely. I wasn't actually gonna do anything."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" He's starting to sound irritated now. "I was joking around. Everyone else got it."

"I didn't."

"Well, that's not really my fault, is it?"

Something snaps inside me. "Someone stabbed me once."

Jake blinks. "What?"

"Two years ago. Random attack. I got stabbed. So yeah, when you wave a knife in my face and then joke about me slitting my wrists, it's not fucking funny."

He stares at me. For once, he's quiet.

"I didn't know," he says finally.

"I know you didn't. But you should've thought about it anyway. You should've thought about what you were doing."

"I was just trying to lighten the mood—"

"I don't need you to lighten the mood!" My voice is louder than I intended. "I don't need you to fix me or cheer me up or make me normal again. I just need you to leave me alone."

"That's not fair," Jake says, and now he sounds hurt. "I've been trying to be there for you. I've been trying to help."

"By telling me no one would've cared if I'd died?"

His face goes pale. "That's not what I meant."

"But it's what you said."

"I was trying to make you feel better! I was trying to say that you don't need to feel guilty—"

"I know what you were trying to do. But you made it worse. You keep making it worse."

Jake runs a hand through his hair. He looks lost, and for a second I almost feel bad. Almost.

"I don't know what you want from me," he says quietly.

"I want you to stop. Stop trying to fix me. Stop making everything about you and how uncomfortable you are with me being different now. Just… stop."

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then he nods, once, sharp.

"Fine. If that's what you want."

"It is."

He walks away without looking back. I stand there by the bike sheds, shaking slightly, and I don't know if I feel better or worse.

When I get on the bus, Ash is already there. He takes one look at my face and shifts over to make room.

"You talk to him?"

"Yeah."

"How'd it go?"

"I don't know."

We sit in silence for the rest of the journey. But it's a good silence. The kind that doesn't need filling.

That weekend, I spend most of Saturday at Ash's house. We work on our history project for a while, then give up and just watch films instead. His mum makes us pasta for dinner and doesn't ask why I'm there so late. When I finally head home, Mum's reading on the sofa.

"Good day?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Actually, yeah."

She smiles.

On Monday, Jake isn't in registration. Someone says he's got a dentist appointment. I feel a weird mixture of relief and disappointment. In English, he sits at the front instead of his usual spot. He doesn't turn around once.

At lunch, I sit with Ash. Liv walks past, pauses, then comes over.

"Can I sit?" she asks.

Ash and I exchange a glance. "Yeah, alright," I say.

She sits down, fiddles with her phone for a second, then looks at me. "Jake told me what happened. About the knife thing."

"Did he."

"Yeah. And for what it's worth, I think you were right to call him out. He can be a prick sometimes."

"He doesn't mean to be," I say, and I'm surprised that I mean it.

"No," Liv agrees. "But that doesn't make it okay."

We sit there for a moment. Then she says, "He's really upset, you know. I don't think he knows what to do."

"That's not my problem."

"I know. I'm not saying it is. Just… thought you should know."

She gets up and leaves. Ash looks at me.

"You feel bad?"

"A bit."

"Don't. He needed to hear it."

"Yeah."

But I do feel bad. Because Jake was my friend once, and I know he was trying to help even if he got it all wrong. That's the worst part — knowing someone hurt you without meaning to, and knowing they probably still don't understand how.

Chapter Five: Détente

The next few weeks are strange. Jake and I exist in the same spaces but barely acknowledge each other. He's quieter when I'm around, which is weird because Jake is never quiet. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, but he always looks away quickly.

Ash thinks I should talk to him again. I'm not sure what there is to say.

Then one day in history, Mr Peters assigns us a group project. Three people per group. Through some cosmic joke, I end up with Jake and Ash.

The first meeting is awkward. We're in the library, sitting at one of the corner tables, and no one quite knows how to start.

"Right," Ash says eventually. "So. The Vietnam War."

"I'll do the political context bit," Jake says, not looking at me.

"Cool. I'll do the media coverage," says Ash.

They both look at me.

"I'll do the aftermath," I say. "Long-term effects, that sort of thing."

"Sound," Jake says. Then, after a pause: "That alright with you?"

It's such a small thing. Asking if I'm okay with it. But it matters.

"Yeah," I say. "That's fine."

We work in silence for a while. It's not comfortable, but it's not unbearable either. At one point Jake makes a joke about something in his textbook and Ash laughs. I don't, but I don't mind that they do.

When we're packing up to leave, Jake lingers.

"Can I say something?" he asks.

Ash glances at me. I nod.

"I've been thinking," Jake says. "About what you said. And you were right. I was being a dick."

"Okay."

"I just… I didn't know how to act around you. After you came back. I kept trying to make things normal again because I thought that's what you needed. But I get now that I was making it about me, not you."

It's not a perfect apology. It's still a bit defensive, still a bit self-focused. But it's more than I expected.

"I'm sorry," he adds. "Properly. For all of it."

"Alright," I say.

"Alright as in you forgive me?"

"Alright as in I heard you."

He nods slowly. "Fair enough."

Ash and I leave together. Jake stays behind, supposedly to get another book but probably just to give us space.

"That was something," Ash says.

"Yeah."

"You gonna forgive him?"

"Maybe. Eventually. I don't know."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

But the thing is, I think maybe I want to. Not because Jake deserves it, but because I'm tired of carrying all this weight around.

Over the next few weeks, things thaw slowly. Jake stops trying so hard. He says hi in the mornings but doesn't make a big show of it. He doesn't invite me to things but he doesn't act like I'm invisible either. It's a strange middle ground, but it works.

One day I'm in the common room, reading, when Jake drops onto the sofa next to me.

"Alright?" he says.

"Yeah."

"Good book?"

"It's alright."

He nods, doesn't push it. We sit there in silence for a bit. It should be awkward but somehow it isn't.

"I've been reading about it," he says eventually. "Depression and stuff. Trying to understand it better."

I look at him, surprised.

"Didn't realise how serious it was," he continues. "Like, properly serious. I thought you just needed to, I don't know, cheer up or whatever. But it's not like that, is it?"

"No."

"Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "Sorry I was such a dick about it."

"You've already apologized."

"I know. But I mean it this time. Properly."

I don't know what to say to that. So I just nod.

Jake stands up. "Right. I'll leave you to your book."

"Jake?"

He turns back.

"Thanks," I say. "For trying to understand."

He smiles, a real one this time, not performative. "Yeah. Alright."

After he leaves, I sit there for a long time, staring at the same page without reading it.

Chapter Six: The Loudest in the Room

Spring arrives. The college grounds start to look less grey, daffodils pushing up through the flowerbeds by the main entrance. People complain less about the cold and more about exams. Life goes on.

Jake and I aren't friends again, not like we used to be. But we're something. We work together on the history project and it goes okay. We say hi in the corridors. Sometimes he sends me a meme and I send back a laughing emoji. Small things. But they feel significant.

One afternoon I'm at Ash's house, half-watching a film, when he asks: "You and Jake sorted now?"

"I think so. Kind of."

"Good. He's still an idiot, but he's trying."

"Yeah."

"You're allowed to forgive him, you know. If you want to."

"I know."

"And you're allowed not to."

"I know that too."

Ash grins. "Just making sure."

That evening, I'm walking home when I run into Jake outside the corner shop. He's got a carrier bag full of energy drinks and chocolate.

"Alright?" he says.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah, good. Just stocking up for revision. You ready for mocks?"

"Not even slightly."

He laughs. "Same. We're fucked."

We stand there for a moment, neither of us quite ready to leave.

"Listen," Jake says. "I know I keep apologizing and that's probably annoying by now. But I just want you to know that I get it. Well, I don't get it, not really. But I get that I don't get it. If that makes sense."

It does, actually.

"And I'm not gonna pretend to know what you're going through," he continues. "But if you ever do want to talk or whatever, I'm here. No pressure, though."

"Thanks," I say, and I mean it.

"Right. I better get home. Mum's doing a roast."

"See you tomorrow."

"Yeah. See you."

He walks off, and I stand there watching him go. Jake's still loud, still the centre of attention wherever he goes. That probably won't change. But maybe he's learning that there are different ways to be a friend. That sometimes the best thing you can do is just be quiet and listen.

The next week, Ash and I are in the library when Jake appears.

"Alright if I sit here?" he asks.

"Yeah, go ahead," Ash says.

Jake sits down, pulls out his books. We work in silence for a while. It's comfortable, or at least it's getting there.

At one point Jake's phone buzzes and he swears under his breath.

"What's up?" Ash asks.

"Liv's having a thing tonight. I said I'd go but I've got so much to do."

"Just don't go," I say.

Jake looks at me like I've suggested something revolutionary. "Can you do that?"

"Yeah. Just text her and say you're busy."

"But she'll be annoyed."

"She'll get over it."

Jake thinks about this, then nods slowly. "Yeah. Alright. Fuck it." He sends a text, then looks up, grinning. "That felt weirdly good."

Ash and I exchange a glance, trying not to laugh.

"What?" Jake asks.

"Nothing," Ash says. "You're just very dramatic."

"I know. It's my best quality."

And somehow, sitting there in the library with Jake and Ash, working on history essays and complaining about exam stress, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time. Normal. Not fixed, not better, but normal. Like I'm just a person again, not a tragedy or a project or a thing that needs handling.

The mocks come and go. They're brutal but we survive them. Jake spends the entire week afterwards loudly declaring that he's definitely failed everything. He hasn't. He never does as badly as he thinks.

One evening, I get a text from Jake: "fancy coming to mine tomorrow? fifa and pizza?"

I stare at it for a while. It's such a normal thing. Such a Jake thing. I could say no. I could keep my distance, keep things at this careful middle ground we've found.

But I don't want to. Not anymore.

"yeah alright," I text back.

The next day I go to Jake's house for the first time in nearly a year. His mum answers the door and her face lights up when she sees me.

"Oh, it's lovely to see you!" she says, pulling me into a hug. "Jake's upstairs. Go on up."

Jake's room is exactly how I remember it. Football posters, clothes everywhere, the faint smell of Lynx Africa. He's already got FIFA loaded up.

"Alright?" he says.

"Yeah."

We play for hours. Jake's as competitive as ever, whooping when he scores, groaning dramatically when he concedes. It's loud and chaotic and kind of exhausting. But it's also good. Really good.

At one point, between matches, Jake says: "I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Properly?"

"Yeah. Properly."

He grins. "Good. Because you're staying for pizza. Mum's ordering."

Later, when I'm heading home, Jake walks me to the door.

"We should do this more," he says.

"Yeah. We should."

"I mean it. I know I'm not always the best at… you know. Being sensitive or whatever. But I'm trying."

"I know."

"Cool. Right. See you Monday."

"See you."

I walk home through the dark streets, hands in my pockets, and I feel lighter than I have in months. Jake isn't perfect. He's still loud, still thoughtless sometimes, still has a tendency to make everything about him. But he's trying. And maybe that's enough.

The next week, in registration, I sit in my usual spot. Jake's across the room, holding court as always, telling some story that has everyone laughing. Ash drops into the seat next to me.

"Morning."

"Morning."

"You and Jake mates again then?"

I think about it. "Yeah. I think so."

"Good. Means I don't have to pick sides anymore."

I laugh. "Were you picking sides?"

"Obviously I was picking yours. But Jake's alright really. When he's not being a complete tool."

"Yeah. He is."

The bell rings. We pack up our things and head to first lesson. Jake catches up with us in the corridor, launches into a story about something that happened at the weekend. Ash and I listen, chiming in occasionally. It feels normal. It feels right.

I glance over at Jake. He's still talking, still the loudest voice in the room. And maybe he always will be. But I've realised something: being the loudest doesn't make you the most important. It doesn't make you right. But it also doesn't make you wrong. It just makes you loud.

And sometimes, when you've been quiet for so long, a little bit of loud is exactly what you need.

We reach our classroom. Jake holds the door open for us, still mid-story.

"You two even listening?"

"Unfortunately," Ash says.

Jake laughs and shoves him. We file into the room, still bickering, still laughing.

Life goes on.

And so do I.