When Jo got engaged, it really made me question what Alexander and I had. I’d seen it written somewhere before that funerals aren’t about the dead, they’re about the living, and I think weddings often aren’t about the couple at the front of the aisle so much as about the congregation. Have you ever been to a wedding and thought about anyone but yourself? I haven’t. I mean, obviously when Jo got married I was over the moon for her. She’d met Kojo on an app, swiping right on him one hungover Sunday morning, meeting him for the first time on the Tuesday night, and within a month was calling him her boyfriend which, I can’t lie, surprised me if only because the last person she was with was her girlfriend, and I just assumed she’d never date a man again for all she slagged them off. Humans exist to surprise us, I suppose. Who am I to write off a mate’s sexuality into a box just so that I can feel better about where they sit on the spectrum? It was wrong of me to assume anything. Anyway. Three months in, Jo and Kojo were saying I love you, and after six months rented a flat together. I wanted to be a good friend – we all wanted to be a good friend – and we tentatively approached the idea that it was all moving quite quickly. What was the rush? She didn’t freak out or get mad when I broached it, just smiled – I remember it really clearly, we were at Bridges Cafe in Stoke Newington one Saturday afternoon, eating quinoa and sausages, right as spring was starting. She’d shrugged and said, ‘This one just feels different. We want the same things.’

We want the same things.