Revealing my scars would be a barrier to intimacy for the rest of my life. An additional concern to revealing my naked body. Something always running through my mind as kisses got more urgent and hands pawed under my bra—tugging me away from any desire and into worry about whether to tell, would they notice, what would they think, how terribly unerotic the whole thing was. But, the one thing I held on to, was the first experience I had of showing them to someone—Jessica. How my new friend saw the depths of my pain, and it only cemented the bond between us. Anyone who recoiled or scorned didn’t deserve entry to my inner life. How do you ever repay someone for a gift like that?

I wiggled back into my pajamas and we were both silent, not sure what to do with all the intimacy floating between us. Jessica pushed her hood down, revealing her stunning head. “Thanks for telling me all that,” she said. “I’m a bit...scared about what to say next, in case I get it wrong, but, firstly, don’t worry about not kissing a boy yet. Or anything like that.”

“I don’t want to die a virgin though.”

“You won’t! And you need to get better first, before worrying about stuff like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Fern, you’ve stopped coming to school. And some of those cuts look fresh. What’s going on? Are you...thinking of...you know again?”

“I... I don’t know.” The question made me start to cry. “You’re going to think I’m so stupid and weird and...”

“I won’t. Just tell me.”

The entirety of it came out. About secretly coming off my medication. How the sadness and the numbness was creeping back. Of feeling ashamed and disgusted and angry at myself, up to the point where I felt nothing, only too exhausted to get out of bed. She listened into the small hours, hand on my knee, judgment never once creeping into her head-nods and her hand-holds. Then she clutched me so hard it hurt.

“You’ve got to promise me, Fern,” she said, her voice laced with urgency, “that you’re going to start taking your pills again. And that, if you ever feel like doing anything to yourself, you’ve got to tell me. Promise? You’ve got to talk about it.”

“I can’t put that on you.”

“Promise me? Or I’m leaving. I will get out of this sleeping bag and I will walk home in the middle of the night.”

“OK, Jesus Christ, I promise you.”

“Even if it’s the tiniest thought, you reach out.”

“OK OK.”

“Because, if you don’t, I will kill you. I will fucking kill you, I swear to God. Even if you’re already dead...”