Last night, I decided to try to spend some time with Soph.

She seemed down again when she came home from uni, and I was remembering what I’d said to Fred, about how much I love her.

I don’t think I actually expected her to agree to hang out, but to my surprise, when I asked, she said, ‘Study can wait. I’m way ahead. I can afford a night off.’

Mum and Dad were out to dinner with friends, on a rare night off work for Mum, so it was just the two of us. I cooked myself some grilled cheese on toast, and Soph made miso soup, and we got into our pyjamas and settled on the couch to watch this old movie Sophie loves called The Remains of the Day. We’ve watched it tons of times before, and the result is always a floor carpeted with wet tissues, so you wouldn’t think it was the best film to make Soph happy again, but she actually likes watching it most when she’s down. ‘Sometimes you need to cry,’ she says. ‘Sometimes it makes you feel better to let it all out.’

When I’m upset, sometimes I put on ‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash. It breaks my heart but, at the same time, it pieces it together. It helps to know I’m not the only person in the universe who’s sad.

We were settled on the couch, ready to get good and wallowy, when Soph’s phone rang. It was her friend Polly.

‘Oh no. Oh, babe. Oh, Polly,’ Sophie moaned, her forehead crinkled. It seemed Polly wasn’t having a great day, either.

‘What? You want me to come over? Well, I’m in my pyjamas. I hadn’t planned to—’

Sophie bit her lip. I could hear Polly sobbing on the other end. ‘I’ll be right there,’ Soph sighed finally.

She hung up and turned to me with a grimace. ‘Sorry, Clemmie. Polly’s just found out Tim cheated on her with a sixteen-year-old at a party last weekend. I don’t want to go, but she needs me.’

‘Go,’ I said, waving her away. ‘I’ve got Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson to keep me company. You save Polly.’

But after Soph left, I found I wasn’t really in the mood for Anthony and Emma and their stiff-upper-lip British melancholy. Something else was calling me.

My purple notebook.

The thoughts in my head.

Words.

I didn’t know which words, until I started writing. I was surprised by the ones that came.

I’m going to paste the poem in here, but I don’t want you to judge me. I don’t want you to read anything into it. I don’t want you to think I’m in love with the boy – Fred – because obviously I’m not. I only just met him. I don’t know what I think about him yet.

But I did know I wanted to write about him.

Click.
Clack.
The watch opens and shuts
and your eyes,
they watch me,
like I am time and space.
Like I can tell you things,
like I can
give you answers.
Click
clack.
The seconds tick by
but I don’t hear them.
All I hear
is your voice saying,
‘Clementine,’
and, as the sun moves
in the sky above us,
all I see
is your eyes,
seeing
me.

It’s only a silly poem, I know, but after I wrote it I was filled with a strange feeling, one I don’t think I’ve experienced before.

I felt . . . infinite. I felt as if things were about to happen. I didn’t know what those things might be, but they made me feel giggly. I closed my eyes and leaned my head on my notebook, and I thought about cogs and wheels, and words, and cider-gum leaves.