‘It doesn’t have to be this way,’ says a voice. I look up to see Michelle leaning against the kebab shop door. She gives me a gentle smile, one that makes me feel like she knows me inside and out, and moves to stand beside me. It reminds me of what I like about her. She’s better than me. She’s more grown up. She forgives herself, maybe even me. She’s incredible. My kebab is plonked down on the side.

‘This is stupid, Rhys. I don’t want to be angry with you. You’re too important to me.’ I want to reach out and brush the hair that falls across her eyes, out of the way, so I can see the piercing blue that seems to reach something in me I cannot reach alone. ‘You want a lift?’ she asks. ‘No chat, no… anything. Just a lift.’

Picking my food up occupies my hands. It stops me reaching out to pull her close. ‘I’ll walk,’ I say. ‘Clear my head.’

She nods and half smiles. ‘You know, he’d want us to be friends,’ she says, and I laugh to myself. ‘I want us to be friends,’ she adds. There’s a strength in her eyes, though undermined by sadness. She doesn’t understand what this is to me, what she is to me. Nor must she.

I lift my arm, wrapping it around her shoulders to bring her close. She smells fresh, of coconut and warmth. His Michelle. ‘We are friends,’ I say into her hair, kissing the top of her head, desperate not to breathe in any more of her smell. ‘We are friends.’ I give her a final squeeze then walk away, not trusting myself to stay strong if I look back. Ten minutes later, I push open the door to my flat. The windows looking out onto the street are open, the curtains Mum made half sucked out, dripping summer rain on the floorboards. I dump keys, phone and kebab on the coffee table our David made. He should have done that for a living, crafted. Plumbing was never really his game. Woodwork though, chipping – he did it so rarely and yet the results were so beautiful. I place my hand on the top, beside the keys. The wood is soft. I can almost feel his energy. The table was shaved, shaped and sanded by his own hand, a gift for my thirtieth. He’d been almost embarrassed to give it to me, neither Mum nor I having had any idea that he was capable of such craftsmanship. Did he know how much I loved it? Did I ever tell him?

Puddles of water collect in dips and knots in the floor, but I don’t care enough to clean it up. I drop into my chair instead, picking at my food, a sick feeling now replacing the hunger. I know what Mum would say, if she saw me now: What a waste, look at the state of this flat, pull yourself together, son.