boys don't cry. [h.s]

thirty five

November

In retrospect, Isabel should have known it would all go wrong a long time before it did.

The day started off so well. Everything was waiting for them in the Union when they arrived, they set up much quicker than anticipated, all of the people running the food stands were on time, the volunteers helping out were obedient and enthusiastic, the entrants of the competition arrived nervous and excited.

Caitlin and Zayn and the others turned up just after Harry and his family, the lot of them introducing themselves to Rory and Meera brightly, and the phrases "this is amazing!" and "so proud of you, Is!" were thrown around more than Isabel could properly take in.

Then the audience started to arrive, waves and waves of them, too many even for the chairs they'd laid out in the union, and Isabel could only put it down to Niall's fantastically designed posters because she'd had no idea this many people would come. They'd sold a lot of tickets, but clearly she hadn't paid attention to Rory's bookkeeping because she hadn't realised there was this many, and the amount raised for Ted's charity just went up and up and up almost tangibly, like there was a flickering counter projected boldly onto the wall.

Amongst the crowd were the judges - Dean Halifax, head of Film Studies at the uni, Tina Sharpe, editor of the arts section in the local newspaper, and Emily Trawell, student head of the Union. Isabel, Rory and Meera greeted them all, introduced them to Ted and told them about Addiction Trust, and nobody fucked anything up or said anyone's names wrong.

And then finally, the participants were up the front being cheered and whistled at by their friends, and the judges were in their seats and the lights went down and Isabel snuck to the back to slump exhausted into a seat by Harry and his family. Harry looked over at her and smiled, leaning forward to press his lips to hers briefly.

"You're amazing," he whispered, squeezing her hand, and as they turned back to watch the first entry into the festival, a low budget zombie apocalypse in which the protagonist seemed suspiciously invincible, Isabel had to take a moment to appreciate how well this had

all gone, because it didn't even seem real. She looked around just one more time to search for Millie and the others, and when she knew for sure they weren't there she settled back in her seat next to Harry and slipped her hand through his.

Months and months of stress, of worried sleepless nights, pacing around her bedroom at 4 in the morning, had all been worth it. It was over, and it was good.

She should have known then.

What goes up...

~~~

"I can't believe they didn't come."

"Leave it, Niall."

"They're utter fucking bellends, Isabel!" Niall ran a hand through his hair and swore under his breath, his face red with anger. "They're so shit to you!"

"Where are they?" Liv asked, exhaling her cigarette smoke and rubbing her hand up and down Niall's arm in an attempt to calm him down.

"I don't know," Isabel muttered. It was about five degrees outside the Union building and she hugged her coat around her as tightly as she could, her breath clouding in the air when she spoke. "I don't care that they didn't come."

"Well, I do!" Niall snapped.

"And me," Zayn said, stamping the toe of his boot over his cigarette butt. "They missed the most important day of your year, and they can call themselves your friends?" He shook his head, his face steely. "Nah, that's not on."