"He's not entirely wrong," She said. He glared at her, but I giggled at the phrasing. "You need to look confident in your interview, like you know it was meant for you and you're perfect for it."

My smile disappeared instantly. "Yeah, but it's not an interview," I said, slightly shakily. "It's a test. It's not an interview."

He turned his head to look at me in puzzlement. "Yeah, but you'll have an interview when you pass the test."

"You mean if I pass the test," I corrected.

He blinked in surprise. “What do you mean, if you pass the test? Of course you're gonna pass the test.”

I shook my head violently. “You don't know that. There are dozens of applicants. Most of them are probably far more qualified than I am. It's just as likely I won't pass it.”

“Of course you'll pass—” He started, but she cut him off.

“You're scared of passing, aren't you? Because then you might have hope?” She asked softly in sudden realisation. I let my gaze as I nodded. He let out a soft sigh next to me and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. 

“I can't have hope,” I whispered. “I can't want this.”

“There's no need to,” He said softly, before pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “It's alright, love. Let's take it one step at a time.”

How typical it is for me to understand that deep down I don't want to pass the test almost as much as I want to pass it only once I start writing it out?

Ah, yes, if there's one thing this fucked up life taught me it's that at least if I don't desperately want it it doesn't shatter me to a million pieces when I inevitably fail. Yay.

Somewhere deep down, you can still feel that five-year-old child you used to be.

It doesn't matter how old you are. It doesn't matter how long it's been. It doesn't even matter what's going on in your life. You can still feel him, wanting the world to revolve around him; thinking he's the most important; looking for someone to protect and comfort him. He's always there, curled into a ball in the corner, fighting the tears threatening to escape his eyes and drown him whenever he's not the most important or the centre of everything.

He never leaves. He's always there, no matter what happens. He doesn't know how to show he needs help; he doesn't know how to show he's terrified of losing the people he cares about; he doesn't even know how to show he cares. He wants to be important to someone—needs to be important to someone—but he can never say it, because he doesn't know how. He's too vulnerable to be able to say it out loud. He desperately wants it, but at the same time, he doesn't think it's possible. He doesn't think it's right. 

Because why should anyone put him first, when they've got all these wonderful people around them?

Why should anyone put him first, when even he can't put himself first?

They shouldn't.

And every now and then, he ends up curling into a ball and crying again, because that's the only way he can express the way he feels. The pain, the loneliness, the guilt, the desires that make his heart ache — all the feelings he could never describe to someone else, because he just doesn't know how. Because he's just a child.

He has no skin. The only thing he can do is try to help and look after everyone else before running back to his bed and hiding underneath his blanket. In the only safe place he has, where he can pretend, just for a little while, he doesn't exist. 

And every now and then he cries again as he realises just how lonely he really is, before starting it all over again.