There’s Rach. There, in those converse, scuffed toe, as if she ever played basketball a day in her life. Hands deep to her pockets like she's searching out holes.

She’s not like the rest. She’s like an onion, and I don't mean in a layer deep bullshit way. I'm just saying that she flavours up the world proper with but one touch, but she also cuts true enough to make you cry if you look upon her too long. Some folk don’t like onions, but I love them true.

Rachel Hermiony Claudia de Santos if you want the fullness of her, but she doesn’t fit all that so Rach it is. Always has been since I've known her, back when she first bought me a drink. Gin and tonic, slice and ice she said. I drank it down in one though I've got a hate on gin but I wanted to see her smile again, see. That smile that sits tight like her mouth is trying to hide it except it can’t quite.

Anyway. This day I speak on, it be different from all the rest. It falls on a Saturday, the lords day some says, but I think upon it like Rach and I’s day. But a collection of hours to be spent knee-deep to a cup of tea, feet flexed upon the sofa, magazine to hand, remote to the other. Some shite on the box, doesn’t matter really, just noise for the true attention be between me and she.

And all she ever had do is look upon me and I’d melt, right down to nothing at her feet whilst my heart exploded into all the pieces of the universe. All it’d take is but one look from her.

And this Saturday, tea filling up my mug, chipped by the handle, toast, burnt at the corners, scrambled egg, a little too much salt, this was the day the world ended.

And death is different to how they say. There's no peace to it and not a thing like sleep it be. Folk lie it up to save your heart, but it’s not a release. It’s something else entirely. It’s a one-way mirror to the police cell of your world. It’s a pain that itches where you no longer have limbs to feel. It’s the touch of all that ever felt love and the ache of knowing you left too soon. But I couldn't call it a release.

When it came it took the surprise all up out of me. I dropped my mug, I know that much for I spilt the tea down my leg, staining up my jeans a tepid mud-like brown. I remember seeing it, or think I do. Cracked the mug proper too. No glue is going to put it back, that many pieces it fell to.

And all I could think was that it wasn't meant to be such ways. I swear it, it wasn’t meant to be so. But it seems my heart had other feelings on it for it stopped its beating then and there. Not a thing Rach could do to fix it up, not even a look from her could re-piece it.

They never did find a reason for it. Doctors tried, poked around even though she told them not to. By then what’s the point she said, but still. They had to, they said. Got to write something on the certificate, as if she's gonna frame it when they give it to her.

And I think on how the hardest thing is that her heart hurt so for want of a reason. But sometimes how it falls is all there is. My heart stopped beating because it did. Right in the middle of an Eastenders omnibus because that’s how it is. Sometimes it’s not all loud and big and dramatic as you think it will be. No aliens landing or flood waters rising or wrath straight from out of god’s mouth raining. No. Instead it was quiet and soft. Like a winters day when the last leaf falls from the tree, leaving it skeleton bare and naked, some thing that life deserted upon. That’s how I must’ve looked to she.

And I feel like the day after some wild party where all you see is empty bottles and full over ashtrays that tell of how a good thing happened there. And I've got thoughts on how Rach is my empty bottle and full over ashtray now. For all I leave behind me be she to tell the world that a good thing happened here.

So speak it loud Rach. Let if pour from you like a fever, let your body tell of what we had through salt water and clenched fists. Let it burn from you like a 5th November night with our lazy Saturdays held aloft like the guy. And know, that like the pair of shoes in the corner of the room that speak loud of the feet that once danced in them, there will always be a corner of you forever changed by knowing it.

And you, in your scuffed converse with your hands hidden deep to your pockets and your half smile that your mouth has forgotten, you need to remember that to me you were the light on a moonless eve and the smell of bread baking and the look of flowers growing. You were the taste of all that can be good and you were the touch of molten gold. You were the fingernails that scratched down my back and the tongue that whispered to my ear. And now you should know, to ease your fear of forgetting, that I am in your blood. My laugh is buried deep to your bones, my fingers entwine your hair and my arms stroke down your skin. And as you carry me let it be towards newness and good. These are the things that await you. I will be your light now. Look to the sky and see me.

I saw the end of the world. I know its taste. I’d share it with you if I could, please believe me. But I finished all my cup so not a drop spare. I'm sorry my love.

So sorry.