It's quarter past twelve and you're holed up in the bathroom- flimsy lock barricading you from the ns-ns-ns of crappy pop music and the laughter of your friends.

A distorted shout goes out- the start of a favoured song or the dismay of a glass dropping to its death? You don't want to know. You don't care. You'd rather be crouched in the bath, sobbing your eyes out, snot and gin and loneliness surging up from deep within.

The tide is relentless, too late to stop it now but you try again and again to check in, asking am I ok what's wrong what's wrong how do I fix it- the refrain of a computer, not a boy with friends who should be helping him instead.

But that requires asking, and that requires explaining, and that requires her to know what is wrong so he asks again;

am I ok what's wrong what's wrong how do I fix it; I've got you love I've got you, you're going to pull through. A hug I suppose- a hug will do. But you look in the mirror

and the only one there is you.