I get ahead of Caleb so I can see his face close up and what I see there horrifies me: it is ravaged. At least during our last encounter his distress was mixed with resignation, even a little humour. There was the talk on the telephone, the animation of a human exchange. Even when he wept, it was with brief, calm grief. This is something altogether different: real and distracted distress.

He stays half kneeling for a moment, swaying almost imperceptibly, as if in the backdraught of the rest of humanity rushing by. It’s not a movement anyone else could detect but I can see it, perceive it might be a better word, his thoughts swooshing to and fro inside his skull like water in a moving bucket. My dear. The phrase comes to me. He is dear to me. What’s wrong? Then he pushes himself up and carries on up the steps, up to the covered walkway, walking more slowly, almost unwillingly, and a coldness comes over me that I can’t describe. I know where he is going. He’s heading to Platform Seven.

Don’t. I think that one word, clear and hard, as I follow him, cursing my inability to communicate: no, not you Caleb. This explains everything: how sad he was the other day, why he was frightened to enter the station. He knew what fate awaited him if he did. He wasn’t skiving off work. He was saving his own life. No, please, don’t, Caleb, just don’t.

But as I follow him, a thought occurs to me, so large, so dark, I swell with it. If Caleb goes off the edge of Platform Seven, I will have company at last. If I don’t prevent this, his body will be gone and then, perhaps, he could be mine.

I imagine him being like me. I imagine eternity. I imagine how pure our love would be if we no longer existed and belonged only to each other.

But then who knows what will happen if Caleb dies in the next few minutes? I don’t know why I’m trapped here rather than just dead. Who knows if he would join me or not? He might disappear forever. I might never see him again. Which would I rather – take the risk, and hope that he is mine? Or keep him alive and know that however fleeting his commutes through the station, at least I’ll see him from time to time?

What would real love do? What does real love feel like? If you love someone, let them go. Whoever wrote that line was never trapped on Peterborough Railway Station.