He had given her cuddles. It was the hardest thing she had ever done. The bond ran deep, as the science said. They lived in each other’s pockets. She would hop on the train and make the forty minute commute, or later, blast music, as she drove to see him.

He had lived in a hovel. Brothers there were, but dad was in Iraq protecting the wrong family, while mum was lost in an alohol infused daze. This, it seemed to her, explained his quiet. He didn’t say much. He preferred not to be seen. Furtive glances and cheerful smiles were the order of the day.

She had come into his world like a star streaming across the void; loud, and vibrant. At the end, it was her turn to be quiet. Let’s go for a walk, she had said; and like the deer, that does not know it will be hit by traffic, he had acquiesced. And when it was over, she had cried on the drive home. He had given her cuddles.