Ten minutes, pins and needles, and a lot of panicking later, I reach the bedroom door. I open it with shaking hands, heart rolling over and over in my chest and mind in turmoil. I stare through the open doorway into the room I once considered home. Everywhere I can see touches of her; the curtains she embroidered, drinks we split on the carpet, her hairbrush on the dresser, in front of a mirror I never would've owned by myself, and although I can't see them, some of her clothes left in the wardrobe.

I step into the room and inhale deeply. Her scent on my tongue, as well as a lot of dust. I kneel by the bed, hands still shaking. Panic threatens to overwhelm my pounding head, and I let it rest on the bedcovers for a moment to catch my breath. Just keep calm, do this, and get out of her. That's all I've got to do.

I reach my arm under the bed into the dust and cobwebs, trying not to grimace. I swear I just felt something move. Why did I push the box so far under? I reach further, hating every moment but knowing it's necessary. It's not until my entire arm up to my shoulder is under the bed that I feel my fingers brush against the box. At this I push my other arm under, balancing precariously on just my knees. I pull it out with a struggle due to how far back and heavy it is, my awful balance, and how much my hands are shaking.

It's covered in a thick layer of dust, and I gingerly rub a finger along it, inspecting it to find it completely dark with grime. My arms have a lot on them as well, and I shiver in disgust. Cleaning is something to add to my list of things to do on good days, though I may have to ask Mum to sort this room. I'm not sure how long I'll last in here.

I slowly pull the lid off the box, trying not to breathe too much with all of the dust flying through the air. I need to breathe deeply to calm myself, but it's impossible to do when the air is so thickly coated. Either way, I lose.

Inside, there are only a few things:

Her favourite bookmark.

Her Led Zeppelin shirt.

A note she wrote me to help with one of my poems.

Her camera.

An urn with half her ashes in it.

I go straight for the camera, not wanting to cause more angst than necessary. And then I put the lid back on the box so I don't have to look at it all. I expect to find it's run out of battery after so long, but a light comes on easily. The screen flickers on, and I sink down to sit properly on the carpet, not wanting to be unbalanced while watching this. There's one bar and it's flashing, but that's enough time for me. I breathe heavier— a small part of me was banking on it having run out of battery.

I pull up the gallery, putting it into grid mode so that I don't have to see any of the photos too closely. Just close enough to tell which is which and be able to see the video. I flick through, brain hurting and hands shaking, making the whole thing so much harder and take so much longer.

I don't properly look at any; I'm too scared to. Just seeing glimpses like I am leaves me exhausted. My limbs have gone numb again, taking my brain with them. Certain photos catch my eye more than others, and no matter how hard I try not to let it happen, they bring memories with them as they flash before my eyes.

A photo of me and Bailey on the beach; I can feel the sand between my toes, taste the salt on my tongue, feel her arms around my stomach. Another of us on my birthday with my friends, all of us tipsy; I can taste the alcohol in the back of my throat, feel the music in my heart, hear their laughter. I swallow back the lump in my throat, hating the tears that gather in my eyes. So many more flash by in front of me, and I'm not sure how much more I can take. I can feel the water building up behind the dam, and it's just about ready to break.

Finally, I find the video, and open it to full screen. A breath of relief escapes my lips, a brief moment of reprieve before I press play. I take a deep breath. I stare at the ceiling for three seconds, jaw clenched. And I press it.

My chest tightens when I see her face pop onto the screen, and my heart is in my mouth. She's healthy, with rosy cheeks, and that smile of hers that always gets me smiling right back. But not right now. My lips are perpetually twisted downwards in my anxiety.

"Take the picture!" There's a stifled laugh from behind the camera, and it's mine.

"Take it!"

She's sat cross-legged and to the side, head turned towards the camera. Her hands are clutched to her chest, a little posy of flowers in her hands; a mixture of blood red roses and giant wild daisies, her two favourites. Her mousey-blonde hair is down her back, just past her shoulders, and shining so brightly in the sun it almost looks white in patches. Her eyes flick about, frustrated and yet sparkling. Ever the dramatist. I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding, and etch this scene into my memories. I'm not going to let myself forget again.

There's another laugh behind the camera, and no attempt to stifle it has been made at all. It takes me a moment to realise who it comes from; I don't even recognise it as myself anymore. If I didn't know better, I'd say that it was someone else. I've not laughed like that in a long time.

Her brow furrows at the laugh while she tries to keep a straight face, only succeeding at first. Then her lips twitch upwards, and her eyes twinkle back at me, until she's laughing too.

"Why won't you take it!" The camera shakes as I laugh again. "Wait, you're filming, aren't you?"

"No! I'm offended you'd think that. I'm just waiting 'til you laugh again to take it, because you look really pretty like that." Always the smooth-talker. I'm still laughing as I say it, and I wish I could join in now, but I'm not even smiling.

There are so many emotions in my head at seeing her face again. At seeing her somewhere other than my own head again. After a while of that being the only place you see something— or someone— you start to think that it's just you, and you've gone mad.

"No, you're definitely filming. Turn it off!" she cries, giving the camera, and most likely me behind it, stern eyes.

When this fails to change her situation, she drops her flowers and scrambles towards the lens, laughing. The camera starts shaking as it moves backwards away from her, and I can hear myself laughing again. She really brought out the best in me.

Bailey jumps to her feet, and the camera lifts, then it's moving backwards again, faster this time but not too quickly, and shaking haphazardly all over the place. Then, quite suddenly, she drops out of the wobbling frame, and a few seconds later it stops moving backwards. I can hear myself laughing uncontrollably, moving slowly back the way I came.

"Bailey? Oh my god, did you— Are you okay?" I ask, but I'm still laughing, the camera still shaking. It's the iccuping kind of laughter, the kind that brings tears to your eyes and is impossible to stop no matter how hard you try.

Then the camera tilts downwards enough that I can see her again. She's sprawled on the floor and quaking with laughter, hair everywhere and hands clutching at fronds of grass either side of her to try and steady herself, though she's failing drastically in her attempt.

"Bailey, I—" I start, before breaking off into a fit of giggles again, camera still half on her but moving about so much she's going in and out of shot.

"Are you still filming?"

I must have nodded, because next thing Bailey is lunging forwards, and the camera drops to the floor with a thud, giving me a view of the grass now. I can still hear both of us laughing and shouting, interspersed with thuds every now and then. I remember that bit; she jumped at me, and I fell over, dropping the soon-to-be-forgotten camera while we tousled on the grass.

After a little while the shouting and laughing stops, and there's murmured voices. I turn the volume up to hear, pressing the speaker to my ear.

"Why were you even filming me in the first place?"

"Because you're beautiful, and I wanted to capture that."

"But a photo would do the same thing."

"No it wouldn't. Would it capture you laughing, or the expression you pulled when you realised I was recording? Or this moment now?"

"No," she speaks quieter than before. "I love you."

There's a pause, before, "I love you too, Bails." Followed by some rustling and then she speaks, really quietly.

"Can we get a cat?"

"What?"

"Can we get a cat? I want a cute cuddly thing."

"Isn't that what I'm for?"

"Yeah, but you can't sit on my lap."

"I could try."

She says something I can't hear, and then laughs.

"What about Illa though?"

"Don't be silly, Alex. She's too lazy to care."

"You'd be surprised how needy she is when it comes to attention. She definitely gets jealous of you."

"Yeah, she does. The best part of my day is watching her flop on your legs to make you cuddle her. She loves laying on people, so a cat could just be another victim to her cuddles."

"I don't know, Bails..."

"Pretty please? At least think about it?"

"Okay, I'll think about it. I'd love to, I just worry about Illa," I sigh. "I guess we could make it work." There's a silence, and then shifting.

I stop the video, not wanting to listen to any more. There's still a lot of it left to play, so I guess we forgot it was still lying there recording everything, not that it posed a problem.

We actually went so far as to go and see some kittens about two months after that afternoon, and we chose one out. Three days later Bailey started getting headaches, and it's clear to see that we never ended up getting one.

I sigh, switching the camera off and dragging the box back towards me to put it away once more. Out of sight, out of mind, right? As I pull the lid off I catch sight of her shirt again, and I pause, fingers resting on the soft material. I should just put the lid back on and be done with this, but I can't bring myself to do it.

I lift the top out, placing it in my lap and carefully smoothing out some of the creases. It was originally mine, but Bailey claimed it on the first night she stayed over here, and then every time after that she wore it to sleep. There were a few others she claimed, too, but this was her favourite, so it got worn the most. I lift it to my nose, inhaling deeply. It still smells of her.

One time she slept in it, and woke before me the next morning. She went outside without waking me, as it was a beautiful day. She just decided to go for a walk in my top, in broad daylight, wearing only some underwear underneath. It was huge on her due to our huge size difference, so it nearly reached her knees, but I wouldn't have recommended her doing that.

She walked down the street to the park, had a stroll around, past all the early-morning dog walkers, and into the woods at the centre. It's a huge park, and she'd never been there on her own before, so she got lost among the trees and thick foliage.

I woke up to an empty bed, and immediately freaked out when I realised she wasn't in the house. She hadn't taken her phone, so it took me three hours to find her. When I did, she was just sitting on a fallen tree trunk, smiling and humming to herself. She knew I'd come to find her, and she was happy to wait. When I asked why she went out so early, she just said that she'd gone chasing rays of sunshine and gotten carried away. Like an over-excited little kid.

I think that just about sums up Bailey. Smiling, naive, a happy little daydreamer. Always seeing the best in the situation, always being so trusting. That's the girl I fell in love with. And that's the girl she was until the end.

My face is still buried in the top, her sweet scent a wreath around me. I just want to be able to take her in my arms one more time. One more hug. But time is cruel, so I know that's something I'll never get.

I breathe in and out, relishing her scent and wishing I could wear it like a perfume so it can always be there. But the only way to do that would be to wear the top, and I don't want to cover her smell with mine. I need to preserve the small pieces of her I have left.

I rest my head on the bed next to me, top clutched tightly in a fist. I should put it back in the box, but I can't do it. I just want her next to me, and this is the closest I'm going to get, but it's something for my aching heart. I take a shuddering breath. I'm not going to cry. Not today. I can feel the tears welling hot and painful behind my eyes, so I press my knuckles to them, rubbing furiously at the sockets. No. I'm saying no. I lift my head to press harder, not caring that it hurts. I won't be a mess again today. If I made it this far I'm going to make it until midnight— and further.

Sitting numb and doing nothing is a mess in itself. But there's something about crying that I just loathe. It's like I've not cried for my whole life, so I'm suddenly making up for it in the six months since Bailey's been gone. The clouds gathered for so long, and now the storms rain down whether I like it or not.

Eventually, I feel the tears draw back, and I press my face into the soft fabric of her top once more, resting my head back on the bed. My hair spreads out across the bedcovers and my face, and I leave it there, a curtain between me and the world. I don't need it; I've got my own walls built. But sometimes extra defences are necessary, even just for comfort.

I breathe into the fabric, letting her scent fill my veins, thoughts of her a hurricane in my head. I just want her. I want her here, next to me. Here. Now. Her. Bailey.

Bailey.