Guilt.

How is it possible that you’ve become such a big part of my life?

I know we’re friends, but when you really think about it, we’ve barely spent any real time together, and for most of it we only ever spoke through Messenger.

In fact, for a long time, most of what I knew about you came from my mum and dad, who had met yours one afternoon in the Young Lives house. After that, they gathered their information through chance meetings in the hallway of the hotel, passing each other on the ward in Belfast or Dublin, or hearing little updates about how you were getting on from other families in our cancer circle.

Do you remember when we first properly met, though? I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t. It’s fairly foggy for me too.

You were with your dad. I was with both my parents. The clinic was busy that day so we were sitting opposite each other in the corridor.

I’m not going to lie, you looked shit, but I’m sure I didn’t look much better. You had a walking stick and a flat cap on; your face was pale and your eyes heavy. You looked cosy though, all wrapped up from the cold outside while I was sat there pretending Dublin in the middle of winter was somehow more tropical than it really was (thanks, steroids).

And although it was the first time we'd come face to face with one another, I don’t think either of us actually said a word. Our parents did though, and they definitely introduced us, but all either of us could really manage was a slight smile and a nod of acknowledgement.

I don’t remember seeing you much after that. Not until we were back in Belfast at clinic, and of course by that point it was COVID, so we were always kept at a distance.

But we still messaged: cheeky little comments about 10 North, complaints about whatever random ache or pain had decided to ruin the day, the odd grumble about life post cancer. All while putting the world to rights in the way only two people with absolutely no authority on anything can.

And it’s funny, because we didn’t even speak all that often. It came in random little bursts, usually around birthdays, transplant anniversaries, or if we’d happened to see each other that day in hospital.

But despite that, you became my person, whether you wanted to be or not.

I know I probably annoyed you, and I’m fairly sure I was a pest more often than not, but despite all the people I met over those two years, you were the one I connected with most.

I guess you can blame fate for that one, at least that’s what I’m calling it.

Same age with birthdays a day apart, transplants a day apart, both relapses, both with leukaemia deciding to misbehave in our central nervous systems.... and, if that wasn't enough, we both had the same dark sense of humour - which if you ask me is where our bond was greatest.

But then you had to go and ruin the whole leukaemia twin dynamic we had going. Why?

I knew you’d been struggling and that things hadn’t always gone to plan, but I think a part of me still believed there’d be one more miracle left for you - one more thing that might somehow turn it all around.

I cried so much after you called me that day. I still don’t know how I managed to keep it together while we were on the phone. I’d never heard a voice sound so weak, so strained, and so tired.

We talked about God, do you remember? 

You asked me what I thought about it all: Did I believe in it? Did I believe in Heaven? I don’t know if my answer was any good, and I don’t know if your mum would’ve approved much of my theology, but you seemed to be on the same page as me, and I think that gave you some comfort.

Of course, if Heaven does exist, we probably didn’t help your chances much. Joking about lighting candles probably didn’t win you any favours with the big man. Still, it made us laugh, and that was enough. Now every time I see a Clean Cotton Yankee Candle, I smile and think of you.

Although the truth is, I don’t need a candle to remember you. You’re already there.

I n fact, I'll always remember the last message I sent you. By that point, I was worried I’d become a bit of a nuisance, but I just wanted to be there for you even if you couldn’t reply.

But when your mum replied instead; when she told me it had happened. It left such a hole.

We might not have spoken every day, we might not have been childhood friends, and we might only have had this one, terrible thing in common, but you became my support, the only person I felt I could talk to who really, truly got it, and I think you felt that way about me too.

Because at the end of the day, not many young people know what it’s like to go through this, and to have shared so much, to have been in such similar positions in life, and to have faced so many of the same fears... we just understood each other. And now you’re gone, I feel guilty.

Guilty that I haven’t lived my life to its fullest. Guilty that I can’t stop replaying the memories and move on from what’s been. Guilty that I still can’t fully accept everything that’s been lost.

There have been so many happy moments since it ended; moments I know I should be grateful for. And I am. I really am.

But there have also been many sad, difficult, and deeply challenging ones, and I think that’s the part people don’t always understand about surviving something like cancer.

The treatment ends, the appointments slow down, and life, in theory, starts moving again.  But some part of you stays there, caught in the before and after of it all. And when someone who understood that part of you is no longer here, it leaves behind a very particular kind of guilt.

Because if things were the other way round, I know you’d have done better than me. You’d have lived bigger, laughed louder, and made so much more of the time.

So I guess I just want you to know that I’m trying my best. I don't want to be sad, or angry, or caught up in the past. I just want to know who I am now and what my purpose is, because in truth, I don't really know any more, and that part scares me.

I miss you, Dan. 

Thank you for being my friend, my leukaemia twin, my fellow warrior.