I Don't Have Much In Life But Take It - It's Yours.

"Fynn!" I push my way through the crowded street, desperate to reach the figure at the other end. The figure doesn't stop, doesn't acknowledge he's heard me, so I break into a run.

"Fynn!" I repeat as I reach out and touch his shoulder. He whips round and my heart sinks.

"What!?" The boy snaps.

It's not Fynn.

Neither was the one before, nor the one before that. Two months spent searching for him and nothing. For all I know he could be out of the city, he could be out of the country, he could have changed his hair, everything could have changed. For all I know he could be... but I don’t want to think that.

I mutter an apology and turn away, feeling the unwanted tears prick in the corners of my eyes. I hang my head and pull my black hoodie closer around me. Yes, black. I haven't got the energy to wear those bright colours, because bright means happy, and I'm far from that.

I stumble back down the street, shaking my unkempt hair over my eyes. That's another thing that's different - I can't be bothered to do my hair every morning, or even at all. Night after night of staying out in the grimy back streets looking for Fynn put everything in proportion.

I don't eat. I'm too busy looking for Fynn.

I don't sleep. I'd only dream of him.

I don't smile. How can I without him?

I don’t care what I look like. Who's there to look good for?

The only I do is look for Fynn. I've spent the last two months combing every street and back alley, got numerous black eyes, bruised arms, bruised and broken ribs, but I needed to find him.

I still need to find him. That's all I think as I hurry through the crowded market, craning my neck for a familiar bag, familiar walk, familiar hair, face, voice, anything.

But there's nothing.

I run my hands through my hair again and toy with the idea of going home to try and catch an hour or two of sleep, then dismiss it. I know I'll only lie awake itching to look for him, replaying every moment with him in my head.

So instead of wasting an hour of valuable looking time I turn my back on the rich estate and head straight for the... rough part of town. I see people I've grown used to, where are before I would skirt round these people in the rare occasion I went to this end of town.

Now they're my lifelines because they're like Fynn, they know him, they've seen him, so I need them. I see one of these people across the street and quickly cross, not bothering to check for oncoming cars.

"Jay you fag," She murmurs, bringing a cigarette that definitely isn’t tobacco to her lips. I smile – because for Gloria that's an endearing term.

"Gloria, I can't stay," I shake my head as she offers me a drag off her cigarette.

"I know Jay – looking for Fynn, I know – well I haven't seen him, for almost a week now..." She murmurs again, speaking a low hoarse voice, one that's indistinguishable, unrecognisable. I groan and take the cigarette from her, taking a deep drag, closing my eyes for a second.

"Thanks... anyway, see you around Gloria,"

My legs start to ache under me, along with my stomach growling, my head banging. Every cell in my body's screaming for sleep, or food, but I ignore it. I rub a hand across my stomach, feeling the dips and ridges of my ribs.

I need to find him. Before this kills me.

I pull my hood up over my head and quicken my pace. I'd learned the hard way you shouldn't linger on this street. But I'm too slow. Before I can realise there's at least 5 people round me – hoods up, dark clothes, unrecognisable, like they always are.

This time I don't try to fight back, I don’t try to run. I know I won't win.

"We've seen you hanging around here, rich kid," One of them spits at me. Literally. I flinch back and reach up to wipe it off.

"You think you're better than us do you?"

I shake my head lightly, and I find my voice leaping into my throat of it's own accord, saying a phrase I've used so many times, "Have you seen Fynn?"

One of them laughs, I don’t bother looking up from the floor to see who, and I get shoved in the chest, "Fynn? That little junkie fuck up?" Another shove and I stumble right back into another, who hits me in the stomach.

"He's probably dead by now," They hiss in my ear, and I feel a sudden panic rip through me. I find strength from God knows where and push them away, push out of the circle and run.

I expect them to run after me, I expect footfalls behind me, feet under mine, tripping me up, fists in my stomach, but I just hear their laughs. They're not trying to break me physically, oh no, they're ripping me apart from the inside.

The tears are streaking down my face, clouding my view of the floor as I keep running. I don't care where I'm running to, I just run and run, crying harder and harder.

I stop suddenly and fall against the little wall next to me, "He's not dead," I sniff back the tears hopelessly, "He's not dead," I slam my fists into the wall and my voice turns into a yell, "He's not dead!"

A creak echoes through the air and I look up, seeing that it's sunset, and I'm facing another night without him. When I look again I realise where I am, and the tears streak down my face even heavier.

I'm at the park, the one where Fynn brought me, showed me how to have fun... told me he loved me. I choke a little on my sobs and lift a shaking hand to my face to wipe the salt off my cheeks. I walk slowly towards the little gate, clinging to the fence, since I have the feeling my legs are going to give underneath me any moment.

When I stop at the gate, I look up. My heart leaps into my throat and my legs give way. I stumble as I run into the park, I run towards the roundabout.

I run towards Fynn.

I want him to run towards me too, like in those movies, and we'll walk off into the sunset. But he doesn't. I doubt my Fynny can even move.

As I reach him I gasp and feels a few more hot tears slip from my eyes. There's a needle in his arm, it's almost empty, but I see the clear liquid, and I see the way his veins are slightly risen, his pale, painfully thin arms are covered with tiny little scars, and my Fynny's surrounded by needles.

I kneel next to him on the roundabout and pull his limp torso against mine. I kiss the top of his head, "Oh God, Fynny, no, don't be dead, please no," He stirs against my chest and I feel hope rush through me, just like morphine. His arm loosely winds round my ribs and he pulls himself closer. I hold him against me and he's almost kneeling.

"Jay?" His voice is soft and cracked, as if he hasn't used it for months, just like mine.

"I'm here Fynny, please, just hold on. Let's get you cleaned up,"

He looks up at me and my heart jumps. His eyes are bloodshot, the whites yellow, his pupils dilated. His face is gaunt and a sickly yellow colour. I can see every bone, and when I look down he's thinner than ever, almost shaking all over, his old dirty clothes hanging from his almost non existent frame.

"Oh God Fynny," I run my fingertips down the side of his face, "I'm so sorry,"

I think I see a ghost of a smile on his cracked lips and my eyebrows furrow just a little. Fynn strains up and I lean forward a little. He touches our lips together and I suddenly feel warm, despite the cold night, the lack of food, the stony ache of loneliness inside me.

None of that matters now, because Fynn's here with me. He touches our lips again, for just a little longer.

"I'm sorry," I repeat quietly, hoping my voice would be a little stronger this time.

Fynn smiles, "I know,"