The trouble with words is that no matter how much sense they make in theory, they can’t change what you feel inside.

There is nothing for you in this bleak hospital room but a cold and empty nothingness that has no answers, can give no peace, will provide no comfort to the living.

Katherine,” he says when we finish. We’re breathing each other’s air and lying side by side, our noses almost touching.“Mick,” I say.“I love your name. It suits you perfectly. Katherine. Katherine. Katherine and Mick.”And when he says my name like that, right next to his, everything is different. I’ve never really liked being called Katherine—all this time, despite what I’ve said, I’ve desperately missed being called Katie. I’ve missed being Katie.But I’m no longer Katie, I’m Katherine—and tonight, for the first time ever, I don’t want to be anyone else.

And when I look into his eyes there’s a feeling of something I can only describe as familiarity, a sense of safety. Like coming home.