Actually, I’ve had fun. Daydreamer, me. And you have too.

I’ve turned my bed, the bubble of the pod, into all sorts.

Been places with you, these last few weeks, you wouldn’t quite believe.

We’ve dived together in a submarine. We saw extraordinary fish.

We went through space. We landed on a star. A bright, bright rock.

You sat beside me on a sled that magic animals pulled across the city sky.

It’s a four-poster bed in a castle room. You stacked your armour in the corner.

It’s a raft on a wide, open river.

An expedition tent. Us dressed intrepidly, Victorians.

It’s easy to imagine.

All the paper flowers you’ve brought. On the windowsill, the extra bedside cabinet. At a certain time of evening, as the light slants in, they throw shadows on the walls, like giant jungle plants.

I hope that makes you smile.

And that’s the thing I suppose I want to say the most.

Smile.

I’m torn up between the joy of knowing you will keep on living, and the fear my dying will ruin it all for you. The world.

But you’re going to have to love it for us both. That’s an order.

The smell of stone in the air when it rains after days of sun. There’s a word for that. Petrichor.

Seeing a broken umbrella in a bin. Knowing someone has given up and let themselves embrace the downpour.

Smile at them.

There will be a time when you find yourself laughing, and feel guilty. Do not.

That you will suddenly realise you have not thought of me for hours, and feel angry with yourself. Do not.

You know I’ve always needed time to myself. So sometimes I’ll be off somewhere. But not gone.

I know . . .

–Sorry. Ruth. Are you? You look a little.

–You’re sure?

–Okay. Then,

I know, when I die, it will be another ordinary day.

There will be no great war. No great global disaster. No buildings will collapse. No bombs will fall. No forests will burn.

I’ll just be gone.

When I do. When I am. I know that what you’ll miss the most is talking.

Don’t let it stop.

You know me, and you know what I’d say.

And there’s the scar, of course, in case. No beard. Promise me that. Don’t hide it.

Once I can’t be there to stop you.

You are out there now, as I write this. Say this.

–Put. No, put as Ruth writes this down for me. Would you mind?

And that you’ll be hearing my voice.

You’ll be having conversations with me in your head. You’ve told me that you do. That you hear my voice.

Well. I’m not really there, am I, right now?