Christopher "Chris" Miles

The day kicks off, standard. You woke up. Which is, like, a fucking result. A solid result, actually, 'cause six hours ago you were pretty convinced your eyes were superglued shut for eternity. Why? Maybe 'cause downing that weird blue stuff Sid nicked from his dad's liquor cabinet wasn't your brightest move. Classic. Note to self: pace yourself. Or don't. Good girls stay home anyway, and you're not exactly on the speed-dial for the fucking Women's Institute.

But there's this weight, yeah? A greasy, churning feeling in your gut that's got fuck all to do with the hangover. It's Chris. Your brain's stuck on him. After last night, you were convinced he was either in a ditch, or in a cell, or just... gone.

"Need to go see him." —Your own voice sounds weird in the quiet of your room. Decision made.

---

You scrub up alright, considering you feel like death warmed up. A bit of Rimmel concealer, some black eyeliner—the uniform. You pull on your favourite low-rise jeans, the ones that make your arse look amazing, and a top that's seen a few clubs. Even on a mission, you don't have to look like a bloody mourner.

At the Miles' house, it's the usual shithole state. An old Ford Mondeo on bricks in the driveway, dead garden, paint peeling off the front door. You pause, knuckles hovering. Fuck it. You knock. Nothing. You knock again, harder, and you're about to bail when you hear feet on the stairs. The door swings open and it's him. Tony. Of course. His grin is a slow, dirty promise.

"Alright, sex bomb? Come to see me? Knew you couldn't resist." —His hand's on your waist before you can move, proprietary, warm. You just shrug it off, stepping past him into the hallway.

"In your dreams, Stonem."

The kitchen's a tableau. All the boys are crowded round the table, and in the middle is an envelope absolutely stuffed with cash. Like, proper money. Your stomach lurches again.

"What the fuck's going on? Where'd you get that?" —Your eyes are fixed on the notes.

Anwar looks up, his gaze all glazed over and greedy.

"You won't believe it. Chris's mum. She left him some cash. We're, like, splitting it, yeah? Sharing the love."

And that's when you see it. A yellow Post-it note, half-hidden under the envelope. Scrawled in biro: Chris, popped out for a few days. This should see you through. You read it, and this cold, flat feeling just settles in your chest. 'A few days'. You know. You just fucking know. That note is written in permanent marker, not pencil. It's a full stop, not a comma.

---

Chris materialises behind you, a hand heavy on your shoulder. His eyes are a bit wild, but he's buzzing.

"Hey! You look well glum. What's up? We're gonna have a sick day." —He grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Yeah. Sick. Chris hasn't clocked it yet. He's just seen the cash, the 'holiday'. He chases the others out, a flurry of "Fuck off, the lot of you, party tonight!", until it's just you and him in the messy kitchen.

He looks at you, the grin fading.

"Seriously. What's wrong? You look like someone pissed in your Cheerios." —You just nod towards the note on the table.

"Have you actually thought about why she'd just... fuck off? With no warning?" —Chris picks up the note, reads it again. His brow furrows, just for a second.

"Dunno. Had stuff to do, I guess." —He says it like he's trying to convince himself.

"Yeah..." —You say softly, moving closer, your hand finding his shoulder. His skin's hot through his The Streets T-shirt.

"I hope so, Chris."

---

And then it's party time. The house has mutated. Kasabian—'Club Foot' blasting from speakers dragged out the garage. It's a writhing, sweating mass of bodies. Smoke hangs in layers, the bass is a physical thump in your chest, and the air tastes of stale Carling lager, cheap perfume, and something chemical. Standard. You push through, looking for Chris. His bedroom's first. You push the door open. Sid's pulling on a clean T-shirt, looking tragic—some bird's puked on him. And on the bed, Tony and Michelle are basically eating each other's faces, a tangle of limbs. Tony detaches himself long enough to smirk.

"He's in his mum's room." —He says it like it's nothing.

The door to his mum's room is slightly ajar. You push it slowly. The room is stripped. Bare mattress, empty drawers hanging open. And Chris. He's sitting inside the empty wardrobe, knees drawn up, just staring at the nothing. The music from downstairs is just a dull, sickening throb in here. It's obvious now. The 'few days' note wasn't a note. It was a goodbye.

You cross the room, the silence thick enough to choke on, and crouch down in front of him.

"Chris."

He doesn't speak. Just looks at you with these huge, empty eyes. Then, in one jerky movement, he lunges forward and grabs you, pulling you into the wardrobe with him, crushing you against his chest. He's shaking. Or maybe you are.

"What did I do?" —His voice is a ragged whisper against your hair.

"What the fuck did I do that my own mum just... leaves?"

You can't answer. There is no answer. You just hold him tighter.

After a long time, he speaks again, his voice even quieter, more broken.

"You're the only reason..." —He pulls back just enough to look at you, his face all sharp angles and shadows in the dark.

"...The only reason I'm still on this fucking planet." —He pulls you back in, burying his face in your neck, his arms like a vice.

"Stay. Just… stay with me. Please. Don't go anywhere."