Page 12 of While I’m Still Here

“When are the tests?” I ask her, because I will be there.

She tells me, and I memorise every single date and remind myself to put them in my calendar later. “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re working, Colin.”

“I have annual leave.”

“You said you were saving that.”

“And what better time to use it. I’m coming, end of.”

I walk through reception without saying goodbye to anyone. My car is across the road, and the world outside is offensively ordinary. People are walking around, cars are moving, and there’s a bloke carrying a Greggs bag. Someone laughs, and I want to grab them and tell them to fucking stop.

Don’t they know?

Bea has cancer.

How is the world still doing things??

“How far away are you?” she asks.

“Twenty minutes. I’m walking to the car right now.”

“I told you not to come.” She sounds so exasperated with me, but I don’t care.

“You also told me you hadn’t been crying.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

“Arsehole.”

Better. I’ll take arsehole, because it means she’s still there. I unlock the car. “Stay on the phone,” I tell her.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That isn’t a reason,” she sighs.

“Because I want to hear your voice.”

Silence.

Fuck… Too much.

I’ve spent years carefully not saying things like that. Years building fences around words before I can say them because Bea doesn’t know. Or if she does, she’s been kind enough to pretend she doesn’t. I fell in love with her slowly enough that I couldn’t tell you when it happened. There was no thunderbolt or love at first sight. No cinematic moment where she walked into a room and everything went quiet.

She’s just Bea. Infuriating, annoying Bea.

Until one day, somehow, just Bea, had become the person I wanted to tell everything to. The one person I wanted beside me when something good happened, and the only person I looked for in every room.

Then I was twenty-three, watching her dance badly at our friend’s wedding with her shoes in her hands, and I realised I was completely fucked.

Seven years ago… seven fucking years ago, and I said nothing because she was my best friend and I didn’t want to ruin it. There was always another boyfriend, or a bad date, or another reason why it was never the right time to tell her, because I convinced myself having some of her was better than risking losing all of her.

Seven years.