I know I should be thanking you. This piece of writing is something I'm somewhat proud of, if I may say that without appearing conceited.

This may resonate with others also reeling after the catastrophic loss of someone loved.

This may allow other people to be comforted to a small extent in knowing that I am with them in solidarity. A kind of tortured camaraderie.

However, I cannot praise you for your absence yet. If anything, I wish I never had to begin this book.

I wish you were still here, telling me about how you think my novel The Blood Harvesting ''isn't depressing.''

I suppose it isn't, compared to this.

I should be grateful to you for teaching my young self another valuable life lesson about love, grief and the cataclysmic effects the smallest of gestures can have on each of us.

But right now I can't seem to react in gratitude.

I'd rather have you than life experience.

I'd rather you still enjoy what it felt like to be mine, even when you never truly were.