I thought I was better now. I thought I could think about you and talk about you without it hurting. But I was wrong. On Saturday Mum and Helena went down to the cottage and brought back a load of stuff. A laptop bag -- what did you use it for? You hated computers -- and a load of clothes.
They were the worst. They're in our hall right now, in plastic bags. And they smell like your house: they smell like you, just so much. I found myself tearing up all over again, so I left the room and went to sit on the stairs with the laptop case. It had your name on it, in your neat capital letters. I sat there and hid my face because I didn't want my brother to come out and see me crying.
When I'd wiped away the tears I went to the living room to try and recover. But there was a picture of you on the shelf, one of my favourite photos that's been taken of you. I just sat there, for more than twenty minutes. Rocking. Crying. Answering in monotones when anyone tried to talk to me.
I thought I was better now, but obviously I was wrong. It's not that easy to carry on. It's even harder to forget.