You know, before yesterday morning I genuinely thought I would find my friend fit and well. I thought that, thanks to the vagaries of the internet, it may take a while to find Alex – after all, it was well over ten years since I last saw him – but eventually I’d find him. I had little doubt that he would have as many tales as I; indeed he may have more. I couldn’t wait to hear all about what he’d been up to, what he’d studied at uni, where he’d travelled to. I expected him to perhaps have his own thesis to show me, and that it would probably be better than mine.

Instead, I found myself writing yet another of those fucked up entries marking the passing of a friend. I hate writing them, but I feel I must. The world must know what it’s like to have been to a special school: to know that, from time to time, you’ll get another phone call or email or facebook message saying that yet another person you grew up with is no longer here. It’s a horrible, fucked up feeling. The worst thing is I don’t know who will be next to go or when that call will come. I expected Alex to live; if he’s gone, they all could go. I might soon be the last; the final member of my class, the only one who remembers that childhood.

So much potential. So much promise. So much life. Gone.