The trouble with the Boy was that he didn't have the heart of Shakespeare, the voice of Poe, nor the soul of Wordsworth, nor the knowledge of Rembrandt in his darkest days. He didn't have a trace of Michaelangelo's spirit nor the angst of Carvaggio and this on its own was enough to dissuade him from understanding that technique was far better than solidarity and possession far more ageless than youth.

He didn't have any of this knowledge because his father hadn't had the courage to tell him that he needed all the qualities of these great men, to win over the heart of a woman who had the dreams of Austen, the ideas of Da Vinci and the scent of a high priestess of Venetian origin.

The Girl was all those things and more, and her value, her estimate in the market of souls was higher than most. She was an angel amongst Gods, and He should never have let her go into the world thinking that it was Keats hearted. Because like all women who live their lives story shaped, she was soon broken by ridicule, humbled by ill experiences and riddled by judgement of the people who didn't understand.

It was odd then, that when the Boy told the Girl she deserved more, she shook her head till her long hair was a curtain around her face, hiding the tears that one cried only when they knew they were safe and would never have to cry again.

You see, she knew that the trouble with the Boy was that he didn't have the heart of Shakespeare, the voice of Poe, nor the soul of Wordsworth, nor the knowledge of Rembrandt in his darkest days. But what he did possess was the determination of Joyce mixed with the sheer undaunted, witty, spirit of Dickens.

It takes 14 minutes and twelve seconds to walk to your home from mine every day.  Your mother never fails to smile at me when she opens the door. I never fail to notice that it doesn't reach her eyes anymore.

You leave your door open an exact two point three centimeters. I don't think you do it on purpose. There is something wrong with the wood that has left it that way. I pause one foot outside the door and listen to you cough, trying to determine how sick you feel today. I hate that every time I think you are particularly ill, I am always right.

Six months, seventeen days and fourteen hours. That is how long its been since the doctors told us you had an illness. I sat there with your parents, listening to a man who said words like 'terminal' and 'leukemia', and counted the number of times he said 'patient' as if it were your name (Seventeen).

The blood bank says one unit is four hundred and fifty milliliters and I watch as they put the needle into my arm to pump out the blood into a little plastic bag. It takes exactly five minutes twenty one seconds, because I'm holding my arm so tight. If I could give you all my blood so you could feel better for just a day, I would.

It has been seven days, twelve hours and fourteen minutes since the ambulance came for you. Six days, fifteen hours and seven minutes since the doctors told us they couldn't help you anymore. I am counting the drips of the glucose as it goes into your arm, my body wrapped around yours, trying to pretend this is a bad dream.

You say noisily, a laugh escaping your parched mouth, that I am obsessed with numbers. I want to tell you you're wrong. My obsession is you. I say nothing. This is the first time you have laughed in one month, three weeks and two days.

*

Did you know that when someone dies their body weight drops quite suddenly? It is not really noticeable unless you have held them close whilst they are dying, praying to every god that you won't lose them. It is just a touch. But it's there when they leave you.

21 grams. That is the weight of a human soul.

Do you remember when you were little and your best friend told you she didn't want to be friends anymore? It hurts like something was nesting on your heart and had clawed its way into your soul. There is an childish elegance to the sadness that you assumed only existed for grown ups when they talk about grown up things. In the glorious contant of humanity, the existence of her will corrode and become a faded memory that you will only remember when you hurt again.

And then you will lose your dog, your best friend, your confidant. It will happen suddenly and you will be left with nothing but the hole in your heart of a lost companion who you assumed would be around forever. You will learn at that moment that nothing true or pure lasts forever. A part of your innocence will die as you cradle your companion for the last time. If only you had goldfish and parents who lied to you about him instead.

You will think the worst is over, playgrounds will become a little less magical, danger will become a little more promising. You will be painfully aware of your parents, their presence, their laws. You will recognise how much of a dictatorship you live in. Mom is never around, Dad is out at sea, trying to keep food on the table. They're busy, they don't have time, except to tell you what to do. Study, become a lawyer, a doctor, play more sports, join a club. It will be a feat beyond humanity if you even remember what the playground looks like when they are done with you.

Eventually, you will learn to become used to that life and the rebellion will set in its ways. Until you see him. He'll wear the wrong socks and always have a smudge of dirt across his face. His tooth is almost out and he shakes it in his gums to gross everyone out. Everyone but you. He will smile at you like you're the only person in the world and call you Dolce, because his mother is obsessed with the word. And then, when you share your secret hideout and only bar of chocolate with him, he will refuse to look at you again. But it will ache most when he takes your best friend, the one who doesn't even understand that he loves those socks because they were his father's gift to him, to your secret hideout.

You will watch them together and remember the special cigarettes your older brother hid behind the broken part of the cabinet, the ones which always put him in such a good mood. And when you light it and cough so much your eyes water, you will understand that it is your soul bleeding through them, because it doesn't know why it is being poisoned. But you will take a deep breath and try again. And again. And again...

I promise. The next one will make you feel better. Just try one more. Go on.

They say that children are so resilient.

I have always wondered why.