‘Oh, nice.’ He takes another swig. ‘So, like, I’m super interested – what’s it like in a mental hospital? Did you meet anyone really crazy?’

I just stand there, silent.

‘Cause, like,’ he continuous, ‘I was watching this documentary on schizophrenia the other day and literally it’s just fucking awful, innit? All that talking to yourself and stuff. And these people, they had to be locked up to stop them hurting themselves, you know?’

My grip on my glass tightens. I could just leave. ‘Well, I don’t have schizophrenia. And documentaries like that are designed to horrify you and sensationalise mental illness, particularly less ‘‘socially acceptable’’ illness like schizophrenia.’

Justin blinks. ‘Oh, yeah, man, obviously. But you have met people like that, surely, in that place?

‘Well, actually the place I was at was mainly for people with eating disorder, so-’

‘Just fucking crazy, innit. So fucking sad.’

‘…sure.’

‘Must have been fucking awful to not want to eat anything, as well, mate. Sounds crap.’

I don’t say anything.

‘Like, did you ever get so hungry that you just had to eat something? That’s what I don’t get, like, the people who just stop eating and die, you know?’

And then Marlon walks into the room.

By the looks on his face, he’s obviously heard Justin’s last comment, and it probably doesn’t help that I shoot him a look of severe distress.

‘Are you done interrogating my boyfriend, Justin?’ he asks, not politely.

Justin frowns and holds out his hands. ‘Mate, we were just having a chat!’

‘D’you seriously think Ben wants to listen to your fucking ignorant views on Christmas Days? Marlon snaps, and it’s been a while since I’ve seen him get this angry. ‘What the fuck?’

Justin snorts and takes a sip of beer. ‘All right, all right, calm your tits.’

‘Fucking hell.’ Marlon puts his arm around me and walks us out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Once we’re out of earshot, he says. ‘He’s such an insensitive little prick.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s not.’

Marlon’s right. It’s not fine. I should have defended myself better.

I’m tired, though. I’m so tired of defending myself.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I should have…argued back.’

Marlon shakes his head. ‘No, it’s him who should be sorry. You shouldn’t have argue with people about this.’

Marlon leads us into the alcove by the garage door. His arms drops but his hands find mine.

I’ve talked to my therapist a lot about people like Justin. Unhelpful people.

When people know you’re mentally ill, most people either want to ignore it completely or they threat you like you’re strange, scary, or fascinating. Very few people are actually good at the middle ground.