Debbie Howells

I discover, too, that grief is different to different people. Comes in many guises. In shocked silences and closed doors around our village, as people try to shut it out. That a blank face or fleeting smile can hide the worst, most private kind of agony.

Everyone has a destiny. Rosie told me that. A future that already exists _ hidden from us but still there, in the future _ and each thing that happens to us, each choice we make, each person in our life takes us closer to it.

That's how birthdays were in our house. All hateful charades of pretty clothes, expensive presents, and ugly words . . .

I loved your world, Noah. It was a magical place, where there were stars and love, and there was hope. Hope. I don__ think you know how it is not to have that. I stole some of yours. It was beautiful, but there were too many secrets between us, and I always knew I__ have to give it back.

But there__ that thing with secrets, too, how they take over your head, feeding on your every thought, growing bigger all the time until the day comes they__e so heavy you can__ walk.

That__ the trouble with you young people._ Saying young as though it was a bad thing.__ou__e in too darn much of a hurry to notice.___otice what, exactly?___he difference,_ she__ replied slowly, as if I were particularly stupid, __etween what people want you to see, and what__ real.

You can play the part for so long, wear the mask, say what people expect you to say. Fight for as long as there is air in your lungs. Fly if you have wings. But you can never be free from someone who won't let you go.