Oh stay home my lad and plough.

The rumour mill had it right, for a change. I heard the whisper, caught the worried glances sent furtively my way, and refused to believe it. I got up and walked out, away from my friends, made my way to his building. I had a key, let myself in, and everything hit me all at once, feeling exactly as if he had sent my whole life supperless to bed.

It came out of the blue, like one of those winter showers that chills you to the bone, the effects present long after the rain has stopped. One day you are, awfully, content, and the next day it's all swept out from beneath your feet.

He still seemed to be present, as I trawled desperately through the dark flat looking for reason; it was as though I might turn around and see him sprawled on the couch, the white cat curled up on his chest, his fingers absentmindedly knotted in her long coat the pose I'd seen him fall into so many times before. He'd taken practically nothing with him, everything was still in place, with the addition of the word SORRY written, incongruously, on the dishwasher with fridge magnets. The childish overtones made me laugh, a short harsh shocked sound; the boy never apologises for anything.

"I had a feeling if I didn't try everything, my life would be wasted," he said to me later. "You understand about boredom, don't you, Cupcake?"

Taped to the tap was a photo of him dressed in regulation khaki. I took the cat with me when I left.