A Letter to Catriona Drummond, Location Unknown.

Dearest Catriona,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to explain. I can only hope that my words find you. I hope you can forgive me.

I suppose I should start from the beginning. The day we met.

Our first day in the Halls of residence in Cardiff.

Was it really 97? It was before mobile phones and Netflix and cars without handbrakes. You had your feet up on the sofa in the kitchen diner, like you came with the flat, twisting a strand of hair around one finger and sucking your thumb. That’s how I still imagine you.

On paper, I don’t suppose we should have become fast friends, as my mum called us, but the housing allocation officer obviously knew different. Your Dad was in the Army, your mum a teacher, and you’d went to a private girl’s school. You were about to study marine geography, lived practically half your life in the water, sailed small vessels (I forget the term, you can insert it) and ate blocks of cheddar like there was a shortage. There wasn’t. My parents were immigrants from East Africa, turned shop keepers. I went to a comprehensive and I was the first in my family to go to university to study Psychology. I get terribly seasick just looking at the water. Back then, unlike you, I had no common sense to speak of.

But we bonded over Alan Bennet, Tom Stoppard, and Ready Steady Cook. We went dancing in the student union, you dragged me camping in Pembrokeshire, we gate-crashed Bridget’s sister’s wedding, spent hours waiting for Sara to finish getting ready to go out (she was permanently on Scottish time), argued over whether cold pizza was a suitable breakfast option (it still isn’t). We had our own way of conversing, that was always rude, terribly sarcastic and I’m going to add witty. I know your eyebrow is probably arched but you can put it back down now. You had the best laugh – a chortle. You always listened, never judged and never said the obvious. You were always there for me – until you weren’t.

I’m married now – two kids. I moved to Scotland. My mum passed away a few months ago – a malignant brain tumour. Looking back, it was exactly the same with her as it was with you. I remember you came down the stairs at the rental and your arm lay limp at your side. You were laughing like it wasn’t serious and I believed you. They couldn’t remove Mum’s tumour like they did with yours. The chemo took it out of her. You were always so stoic and so positive and brave when you were having treatment, I don’t think I truly realised how awful it must have been for you. Mum got a terminal diagnosis pretty much straight away. Like with you, when I got asked to say goodbye, I didn’t know what to say. I got a chance to go back and fix that with Mum before she died, but I didn’t get that chance with you and I regret that to this day.

I’m sorry, the words never came. I’m sorry that I didn’t want to say goodbye to you. I didn’t know how to lose you.

But I’m a lot older and wiser now. I’ve had some time to think. If I had to do it again, I know exactly what I would say. I would say that I have known no one braver, more fearless, dafter. You were one of the few people to really see me, and you continue to inspire me. I am eternally grateful our paths crossed. You’ve left your mark in this world and on my heart. I will always miss you.

Till we meet again,

Taslin