I jump up and pat at the pockets of my jeans as though I’m about to leave and trying to locate my wallet, keys and phone. The action confuses me for a second.

I rub my hand over the top of my head in an effort to generate some sense in there.

‘Keep things light, yeah?’ I hear Zaza warn from the other side of the window.

‘I just hope I can keep myself together. The last thing he needs is me blubbing,’ I hear Vicky reply.

‘What he needs is us here. Be you … but be cool.’

‘Right,’ I hear Vicky say firmly, like she’s taking an order. ‘Fuck, I hope it’s not always going to be this hard.’

They clearly haven’t realised I just sit in silence these days, that I’ve stopped listening to music or watching the TV. None of it means anything. It’s all just a distraction. It’s all just noise. I don’t need more noise. I need to find the peace in the chaos of my mind, not add to it.

I’ve seen them since, obviously. There was the goodbye, the funeral, and other days … I haven’t just been sitting here stroking my furniture, developing a new fetish. But today is different and loaded because today is the day Pia pencilled in months ago. The one I start removing parts of her from my life. The day, she told me, I have to start taking action.

The shrill of the doorbell startles me as it rings through the ground-floor flat. Even though I’ve been expecting it my heart jumps. My feet move on autopilot to greet them, my hand shaking as it reaches up and fiddles with the lock, somehow magicking it open. The door swings on its hinges, the cold February air instantly filling my lungs.

There they are. Two of my dearest friends. Two women who’ve seen me at my lowest, and my very highest of heights. Zaza is a ball of colour in a jumpsuit that someone’s chucked a rainbow at, her braided hair pulled into a bun on top of her head. Vicky looks like she left in a hurry – her top covered in various stains and her brown hair as wild as my own – yet she looks functional and determined, like she’s ready to get some work done.

‘Hi,’ I manage.

‘Hey,’ Zaza replies, her eyes attempting to be wide and bright but appearing more shocked and alert.

‘Hello …’ adds Vicky, her voice strained.

I’m crushed by the awkwardness I feel watching them shuffling on the doorstep. They’re inspecting me, seeing how I look, how I sound, how I’m dressed – but they’re trying not to make it obvious. Two concerned friends tiptoeing around our collective grief in a bid to save us all from drowning in mine.

Is mine worse?

That really shouldn’t even be a question.

Of course it is.