To ask Ferran if he wanted to meet Momo was easy – to ask Momo if he wanted to meet Ferran was not. I had almost forgotten what was the very thing that drove the both of us apart in the first place. Yet at the same time, Momo had no problem with me seeing Ferran, that we have managed to establish. He just never asked about him, and that made me worried about what he felt.

"What do you think of Ferran?" I asked him.

Momo and I were at his old home in quartiers nords, in the northern part of the city. The part of the city I would only see while I'm on the train leaving or coming into Marseille. It was certainly a different cry from the rest of Marseille. Old modernist apartment blocks towered imposingly above smaller houses with their terracotta roofs, and it was in one of these blocks Momo and his family moved to after their old house was deemed unsafe. It certainly felt different from the rest of Marseille, and I had to admit I felt uneasy stepping into that neighbourhood. It was, to put it politely, not a very pleasant district. It was the kind of place that was home to working class immigrants, and of course, the problems associated with poverty. As we walked from the station to his house, we walked past youths hanging around the side of the street, and women with colourful headscarves walking by hurriedly. Momo had assured me that nothing was going to happen in broad daylight, and with him by my side, I guess I felt a little bit safer.

"That's a bit of a random question now isn't it?" came Momo's reply, finally.

It was only in that moment that I realised the extent that Momo and I have avoided the topic.

"Yeah," I muttered awkwardly.

"Well," he shrugged. "I barely know anything about him."

I shrugged the topic off, since Momo didn't really seem interested in discussing it at the moment. He was on the stove over a pot of semolina, preparing it for his grandmother. He needed to be home that day since he had to take over caregiving duties from his aunt for a while. That was when I realised I barely knew anything about Momo's family, something that I wasn't too proud of. I guess that's why I offered to tag along. I had hoped I could be useful, but Momo seemed fine handling everything by himself. In the end, I just helped him boil some water and do some light cleaning.

Momo introduced me to his grandmother, telling her that I was a very good friend of his. That was the only thing I understood, as he immediately switched to Arabic afterwards. I felt a little weird, but I didn't mind. After all, Momo had told me that she could only speak the most basic of French.

She was mostly confined to a small bedroom now, barely having the energy to get up from the bed to her armchair. I only stood awkwardly in the doorway, smiling at the elderly woman who looked at me with kind eyes. Her skin was wrinkled and she clasped her hands together as she sat on the edge of the bed. The sun shone in from the window, illuminating her face. Momo had told me stories about his childhood, about how his grandmother made the best tea he had ever tasted, and how she was always kind to everyone. I could see that.

Momo was busy preparing her medicines in a pillbox when the old lady said something, looking in my direction. I couldn't understand a word, but her lips curled up into a thin smile. I noticed Momo smiling as well.

"She says you're very handsome," Momo tells me with a laugh.

"Why thank you," I replied, nodding in her direction.

The elderly woman said something else with a laugh, and Momo chuckled in reply, but he never translated it for me. I took that as a sign to give them some space, and took my leave.

I retreated to the small living room and sat at the dining table. It was a tiny apartment all things considered, but it was cosy. Biscuit tins lined the shelf in the kitchen, and there was a wall of photographs just above the sofa. Momo and his grandmother were still talking as he cleaned up her room, so I just decided to take the liberty of letting my curiosity get the better of me.

I could recognise pictures of Hasan and Momo, the two boys probably about five or six, Momo clambering over his older brother. It was cute, and I couldn't help but smile. There was another picture, in black and white of a woman with a white veil in a photo studio, which I assumed to be his grandmother. She had the same kindly eyes, so it was no doubt her. There was also a picture of Momo wearing a gold medal, his hazel eyes looking into the camera, a bright smile on his face. I don't think I've ever seen him so happy. Behind him was a woman with an azure headscarf tied underneath her chin, her hand gently placed on his left shoulder. I guess that must've been his mother.

Now that I thought about it, he never mentioned her. I've met his brother, and Momo had mentioned his grandparents, but he had never spoken about his mother. All I remembered about her was the time Hasan joked about how his shakshouka could best their mothers' but that's about it. No, no - the shaksouka was their grandmother's.

It was then when Momo returned to the living room.

"I see you're looking at my old pictures," he said, chuckling.

"Don't mind me," I replied. "I'm just trying to blend in with the furniture."

Momo only rolled his eyes as he walked up to me from behind, wrapping his arms around me.

"I really appreciate you coming," he said as he rested his chin on my shoulder. "It means more than you think."

"Come on," I muttered. "I barely did anything."

"Did you think I brought you here to help me with chores?" he laughed as he pulled away. "If that were the case then what a shame I did most of the chores myself."

"You wanted me to meet your grandmother," I said.

"And I guess I wanted you to see where I grew up," he added.

"Well," I said. "It's a pretty nice place."

"That's the first time I've heard someone use 'nice' to describe the banlieue," came Momo's reply.

We left the tiny apartment a while later, when Momo's aunt returned. It was still early in the evening, but the banlieue wasn't necessarily a place you'd want to be caught outside in the dark, especially if you were a woman.

On the bus home, Momo sat at the window seat leaning his head against the window, his eyes gazing outside. Discreetly, I reached out to his hand on the seat and held it. He seemed surprised at first, but soon I found my palm locked in his, our fingers intertwined.

"Can I ask you something?" I asked. "If you don't mind."

He turned to look at me.

"Shoot away."

"What happened to your mother?"

Momo only smiled sadly, averting his gaze. I was immediately hit by a pang of guilt. I should've known better.

"I. . ." Momo began, tilting his head. "Kinda expected you to ask, honestly."

A part of me was relieved to hear that he wasn't offended, but at the same time I could've slapped myself for being too brash, yet again.

"She passed away a few years ago. Cancer."

"I'm so sorry," I told him.

"It's fine," he said, running his hand through his hair as he leaned back into the backrest. "I was with her right up until the end. I'm glad I was."

"You took care of her?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah I did."

We were silent for the rest of the ride home. Personally I couldn't imagine what Momo had gone through. It was true, he was the strongest person I've ever met. And yet still, I was always so surprised by how little we knew about each other.

"Do you think it's strange that we know so little about one another, even after all this time?" Momo said as we ate dinner that evening.

"No," I shook my head. "I don't think so. But that's what questions are for right?"

"You're not the only one who can ask questions, you know?" he said.

I gulped. I was somewhat expecting it at some point.

"What's he like?" Momo asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked me in the eye.

I paused for a moment as I twirled the pasta around my fork in silence. I knew who he was talking about, but the suddenness of it just caught me by surprise. Ironic, I suppose, given that I was the one who had brought Ferran up earlier.

"You're talking about Ferran, right?" I said, just to make sure.

"Who else could I be talking about?" he retorted.

Of course.

"Well," I began, seeing that there was no use in me trying to delay any longer. "How do I begin. . . I guess he's a nice kid."

I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks as I quickly averted my gaze.

"That can't be the only thing about him," Momo said. "Surely you can't be so invested in him if he was just 'a nice kid'."

"You're right," I replied. "Let me try to think."

To be honest, even after entertaining the thought of introducing them to one another, I never exactly had the words to describe Ferran. Momo was so much of an easier person to describe – sharp, witty and smart. How he always knew what to say. How easily he could make me laugh. How easily he made me feel at ease. But with Ferran – it was already difficult to put it into words in my head, what more verbalising them.

"I don't really know how to put it into words but he's the most peculiar person I've ever met," I said. "Sometimes he's there. . . but it feels like he's elsewhere. He says the strangest words and does the strangest things."

Momo only pursed his lips. I didn't think that answer satisfied him.

"Well, do you remember back at the calanques when we first started dating," I said, trying to jog his memory. "When I told you about my best friend?"

"Yeah. . ." Momo said after a while. "Yeah, I remember."

"Well, Ferran is the younger brother of my best friend," I continued. "We both went to the same school and he was on the rugby team too."

"Were you two close?" Momo asked.

"Not really," I said. "Not when we were in school. He never left his brother's side, so he was always there, but he was never really there like I said. In fact we barely even spoke when we were in school together. He only spoke to his brother and no one else."

"And now you see him almost every week," Momo replied. "Hard to believe really."

"Are you saying you don't believe me?"

"It's not that," Momo said, resting his head on his knuckles as his other hand twirled his fork around. "I'm just. . . surprised I guess. I'd thought you were super close or something up to this point."

"We only got close after his brother died," I said. "He came to visit me, and I guess that's where it all started."

Momo was silent for a bit.

"You've never really talked about your friend," he said.

"What's there to talk about really?" I groaned as I leaned back into my chair, putting my fork down. "He's dead Momo. He's not coming back."

I didn't know why, but Momo bringing up Rafel somewhat irritated me. It didn't feel right. I just didn't want to think about him anymore. It was fine when Ferran or Amélie talked about him, since they were there, but Momo wasn't. It almost felt like these two worlds could never meet. Rafel existed in a faraway world – a world of golden sunlight, country trails and cypress groves. A world where Momo never existed.

"You know," he said with a sad smile. "If there's anything that you need to get off your chest, I'm always here for you. Anything at all."

I knew Momo was just trying to help, but somehow thinking about it hurt. I've pushed thinking about Rafel to the back of my mind but he just had to bring it up. Somehow I felt like my heart was being pried open, and I was trying my best to keep it shut. A part of me wanted to let him in – just for someone to know how it feels, but another wanted to keep him out.

"I can't," I said, standing up and heaving a deep sigh. "I just can't. I don't know how you do it Momo, I really don't. Just. . . opening yourself up like that. You're right. We really don't know much about each other all this while because I don't want to think about things like this. I really don't."

It was then when I realised I was trembling.

"Look," Momo said, standing up and walking up to me. "Like I said, I'm just trying to help. If you don't want to talk about it that's fine. I'm not forcing you to do anything you don't want to."

"That's the thing," I told him. "A part of me wants to tell you, but I just can't. Ever since you've come into my life, things have been different. Sometimes it feels redundant to think about the past. Probably because I was just so tired. Tired because the thoughts have always been gnawing at the back of my head."

"About him?"

"When I first came to Marseille," I began, just letting my stream of consciousness out of my lips. "It was just two weeks after the funeral. All I could think of was him. I could see him in the oleander bushes and I could hear his laughter in the breeze. They were just so. . . intense and I just tried my best to not think of him until I didn't think of him anymore. Sure, I had my girlfriend but even then our relationship was already in its death throes. My life felt like it was falling apart. By the time she ditched me I was already so numb.

"It was then when I came back to Perpignan for the summer and ran into Ferran again and we got close. We were. . . a thing I guess, but before I left for Marseille he ditched me at the train station. And then we met again by chance – the day you saw us by the harbour. And now here we are. That's just the surface."

Momo only nodded.

"I don't think I want to talk about anything beyond that," I said. "It's not that I don't want to. . . It's just that even if I wanted to I don't know where to begin. Everything seems like a blur. One moment he's alive and smiling and the other he's gone."

I paused. I didn't know if I should continue further. This was further then I had ever been with myself. When it was just me alone I could easily dismiss those thoughts away, never to bother me again until they decide to randomly show up again. But Momo's slow coaxing helped.

Momo stood in front of me, looking at me with those warm hazel eyes of his. His palm was on the side of my arm, a gentle reminder that he was still there with me. If there was anyone in my life I knew that understood pain, it was him. He had everything taken away from him. I looked into his eyes and I could feel myself calm down. Truly he was my greatest comfort.

But unlike anything else, Rafel's death never brought any memories to the forefront. Nothing. It almost seemed like there was a gap between the last time I saw him alive, and me leaving for my house in Thuir where Ferran came to visit. As hard as I tried, I couldn't bridge that deep, ominous blank.

Try as hard as I might, I simply couldn't remember.