I’ve only ever seen you cry three times. One was in our early days, back before, when the thought of losing each other was unbearable. You cried as you held me and in that moment I knew you loved me and I knew I loved you too.

The second time was when your mum was diagnosed. That day I held you. My body absorbing your sobs, rocking you gently, until you found sleep. Neither one of us would have ever imagined back then that it would actually be her that had to say goodbye and live on with her grief for you.

The third time you cried was on that final day. This time neither of us held the other. The tears were bitter, angry droplets, accompanied by vicious words. The stinging realisation of what we had become. The recognition that this could no longer be buried. The acceptance that the end had come.

There was no comforting – the distance between us was too great. I couldn’t have reached out to you if I tried. And, even if I did, you were already stumbling away. Angry stomping feet, water-filled eyes, careless, not-looking.

FALL