Phobic.

He'd let me help him.

At first I'd been ecstatic, but now the euphoria had worn off, and I'm starting to realise how hard it is to help and how deep this fear has dug it's claws into Ben.

But I wouldn't give up. No. City kids don’t give up, we have our pride.

I clench my eyes shut since I hadn't blinked for a while, and the darkness was wreaking havoc on them. I stare at my laptop screen again, flicking through endless search results for how to help Ben.

Nothing came up.

I guess I'd just have to use my city kid initiative. I smile and click a few more pages, hoping to glean a few more nuggets of information, but nothing. I knew, though, that I couldn't rush Ben. I couldn't dump him in the middle of the park, tell him it was all okay and expect him to believe me. This would take time, and patience, and I didn't have the latter, that was for sure. I take a deep breath and glance at the clock.

Three thirty, dammit, I'd have to be up in two and a half hours, and god knows I needed all my energy to deal with Ben.

I shut my laptop down and slide it off my stomach. I couldn't be bothered to move it, and I was used to sleeping surrounded by debris. I quickly doze off, without thinking I was still fully clothed, and my lasting thought was Ben, for the third night running.

I wake up two hours later, the buzz of anticipation in my stomach, and the dark hallway greets me as I find the bathroom and take a shower.

For some reason I take a bigger care in my appearance, and when I emerge from the bathroom, towel round my waist, I look a whole lot better than I usually do at six in the morning.

I smile at the fact our school, being a small town middle school, had no uniform, as I pull on some black skinnies and a graphic top of some kind. Back in the city we had a 'strict' uniform everyone destroyed, cropped skirts, shirts done up with only one button, blazers razored and thrown over one shoulder. I shove on the tiniest bit of eyeliner and dry and straighten my hair. I grab my messenger bag and take a leisurely stroll out the house, saying goodbye to Dad on my way out.

I was restless, and it was too early to head into school. I look for a Starbucks, and a cynical smirk worms its way onto my lips when I realise of course Withston wouldn't dare have something as cosmopolitan as Starbucks. Instead I find a pretty little café and order a coffee, the tired woman giving me a strange look.

I sit in a booth by the window and watch the stream of people steadily grow. My coffee is gone by the time school kids start walking past, and I see a flash of white through the crowd. I quickly rise from my seat and follow him.

"Ben," I say, close enough for him to hear, not too close to make him jump.

His body just keeps walking, but his eyes flash towards me. I see a smile for a split second, then his eyes dart towards all the people bustling. They scared him.

"Please don’t talk to me."

I stop for a second, wondering why he was so cold, why he was so harsh.

He shakes his head for a second, "I mean, let me get out of the people." His lips barely move, his voice barely audible above the commotion, yet I heard him. I nod to myself and follow him, not too close, until we get to our homeroom. I take my seat next to him, and watch intently as he goes through what I presume is his morning routine.

I rest my head on my hand and watch him still. Ben heaves a sigh, then stops himself, cautious of the air. He sits in his seat and stares at the desk.

"Can you talk now?" I ask softly.

Ben shudders, as if he's forgotten I'm there, and he looks up sharply. He nods.

I'm not sure what to say, for once in my life, and I can't look away, just watching him. He holds my gaze for a few seconds at a time before glancing back at the desk for a few more seconds, then back at my eyes.

"Why do you want to help me?" He asks again, his lips barely moving, his eyes holding mine for double the time.

I avoid the question and ask my own, "What do you see?"

He jolts, and for a second I regret asking him a personal question, "Pardon?" He stutters.

"What do you see when you," I glance around and see the floor, no doubt dirty, "when you look at the floor?"

"Germs." He hisses the word like poison.

"The walls? The room?"

"Germs."

"Teacher?"

"Germs."

I stop at the next question I can think of, and I know my voice will break when I ask it, "Me?"

His eyes fly to my face and I feel my leg start to jitter. Ben's teeth chew at his lips and neither of us can stop staring. My muscles tense and Ben inhales sharply. My heart is crashing against my ribcage and I can't stop it. My throat and lips are dry and I can't moisten them. My leg jitter worsens and I long for him to answer, yet at the same time I wish I'd never asked.

Then, in a split second, before I could comprehend, Ben has pushed himself from his chair and is out the door.

I'm left open and vulnerable, and alone.

So all I can do is follow him.