I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you of all people. Throughout my life you were the one person I could turn to. The one person I could always count on to understand. And now that I’ve lost you, I’ve lost everything.

But whichever form it took it brought with it, in those moments of bitter anguish, such a desperate surge of hope that it was almost untouchable, and flitted away like a golden butterfly into the bright blue sky - beautiful, unreachable and completely transistent.

You cannot undo the past; you can only learn to live with it, find some way of making peace with it, and move on.

But I don't want to be fine, not if it means she's going to let go of my hand; not if it means we're going to go back to being polite strangers.

At the age of five she has already come to terms with one of the life's harshest lessons: that the world isn't fair.

At what point do you give up - decide enough is enough? There is only one answer really. Never.

It's horrible being ashamed of someone you care about; it eats away at you. And if you let it get to you, if you give up the fight and surrender, eventually that shame turns to hate.