Her hoodie will be damp forever, she knows, and it’ll smell. Her hair is tickling her freckled face, pale in limp strawberry ringlets.

Leaving. Of course. Kate can’t believe that she’s the only one with him at the station. Where are they? They must exist, nameless hordes of Prettier-Than-Kate, everyone who had him, kissed him, threw him away.

She’s always hated being too young.

The bus is coming. She knows she’ll remember this, suddenly. Pressing the hoodie to her face will bring it back: one moment of desperate clarity, her hand inches from his, the smell of cigarettes and warm rain.