We’re on the duvet on the floor in her living room, with the tops of our heads touching, staring at the ceiling. I should be at church. It’s Sunday and I should be at church, but I haven’t been able to leave this place. We can’t physically leave this place. She’s called in sick and we’ve lain on this floor for hours, listening to music and talking every now and again about stuff like our favourite jelly bean flavours and when we last tried to count all the stars in the sky. It’s almost like last night never happened. That we didn’t sit and cry in her bedroom, then she didn’t get back into her bed and the two of us didn’t lie at opposite ends, crying ourselves to sleep. Almost, but not quite, because we don’t talk about anything to do with our lives before now. We have found stuff, by which I mean safe stuff, to talk about, but not the other stuff, the real stuff. That stuff we shy away from like it’s a tiger that will overpower and devour us. ‘What’s the song you’ve written the notes to on your trainers?’ I ask her.
