Thursday, December 23rd (16 years ago)

I wasn't born in a hospital. Mum had me in the middle of the night, on the side of a motorway. Apparently it was all very dramatic and quick, with no time to call an ambulance. I was two days late, but once I finally decided it was time to come out, I didn't hang around.

My parents named me Ruby. It wasn't because they thought I was precious, like a gem, but because they were being ironic. I was born with jaundice, and came out the colour of Homer Simpson. Now my face always seems to be red. Whenever I'm hot, cold or embarrassed, it turns the colour of a fire engine.

I don't remember much about my childhood, or at least nothing in great detail. Some people remember loads of stuff, which makes me jealous. I don't remember anything before we moved to Canvey Island, and my Dad's just a hazy shadow now.

He left when I was four, moved to America with his business partner who he'd knocked up. Mum and I never hear from him any more. Maybe one day I'll try to find him, but right now I'm not bothered.

Despite my dad leaving, and the stupid colour my face turns, my life was pretty good. I had everything planned out; I was going to be happy and successful. Firstly, I was going to take a Criminology degree, and then get a job in a prison, helping people sort out their lives. I was going to travel the world, I was going to get married, and I was going to have three children who would take care of me when I got old.

But one early spring day, my life and plan were blown apart.

Sunday, March 1st 10am (Now)

I should have been getting ready, but I was still in bed. My dress hung ready on the wardrobe door. Mum had snuck in last night to iron it for me. There was a stain on the arm from when I had last worn it, but she didn't think anyone would notice. The dress was black.

In three hours the funeral was due to start. Nearly everyone from our year would be there. Ben's family had said that everyone was welcome, but I wondered if they were aware just how many people he knew.

Earlier that morning, Tina had called me, asking if I wanted a ride with her. It was like we were planning a trip to the cinema. I told her Mum was going to take me, but I didn't say why. The reason was because even though I'm sixteen, practically an adult, I'd never wanted my mum more than I did right then. I guess I was hoping that she could make it all better somehow – give me one of those big hugs that erase everything.

But that's only part of the reason I didn't want a lift. The other was that I wasn't certain I could go through with it. I didn't think I was strong enough to sit on those cold wooden pews, looking at the cold wooden box, which trapped within it the person that I loved.

No, I couldn't do that. I was going to stay in bed, burrowed beneath my duvet until it all went away.

10.10am

Mum came into my room and opened the curtains. The light hurt my eyes and I grumbled. Ignoring my complaints, she handed me a mug of tea. It tasted sweet, like she'd heaped half the sugar jar into it. Usually I avoid sugar – goes straight to my stomach and forms a big roll of flesh. But that day I drank it all; even the grains in the bottom which hadn't dissolved properly.

Apparently the sugar would help my nerves. I wasn't shaking so much any more, but I still couldn't bring myself to eat the toast that she'd left. My first and only bite had tasted of plastic.

I told Mum I didn't want to go. She gave me a speech about how I'd regret not saying goodbye. I wouldn't, because I didn't want to say goodbye yet. If I went to Ben's funeral, it would be like accepting that he was really gone. Denial was far better than that, if a little unhealthy.

Maybe I didn't have a right to be that upset, though. I mean, it's not like we were all that close. I loved him, but I was pretty sure it was unrequited. I only sat next to him in maths, because our surnames both started with a T. We chatted a lot, but we weren't best friends. I wouldn't have gone up to him at lunch, or invited him to the cinema with me and Tina.

But none of that changed the fact that I was in love with him. And sometimes it sucked, because I wanted to tell him, and every night I literally dreamt of him saying it back. Sometimes I'd open my mouth to tell him, and the words would form in my head but then fail to materialise. It was torture, but it was also the best feeling in the world.

It made no sense, but I was happy just being in love without him knowing it. And I'd have carried on like that for the rest of my life, perfectly content, if he hadn't been taken away from me; if somebody hadn't killed him.

4pm

My trembling fingers clutched the red balloon. Tina had bought it back for me from the funeral. Hundreds of them had been released outside the church, all different colours and full of helium. They'd soared into the sky, as a celebration of Ben's life.

I'd been trying to let go of my balloon for ten minutes, but I wasn't getting anywhere. I didn't know why it was so hard, but my hand just wouldn't let go.

Tina hadn't stayed long after giving it to me. Her mum was waiting in the car, to take her to the park. There, Ben's friends had organised their own sort of wake. Tina tried convincing me to come, but I wasn't really in the mood to sit on a swing and drink WKDs, while swapping stories about Ben. To start with, I didn't really have any to tell. Sleep was defiantly my best option.

The sky had turned a dark grey, filled with moisture and threatening to soak me with its tears. With a huge amount of effort, even more than it had taken me to get out of bed, I let the silver string slip through my fingers.

Gently, the balloon floated upwards. I watched as it gained altitude, getting further and further away from me. The red upside down teardrop stood out against the dull background. A few seconds later it was gone.

I stood there until rain struck my cheek, and I started to shiver.

11pm

It felt like somebody else was in the room, watching me.

I looked around, even checked inside my wardrobe, underneath my bed, but there was no one. The only explanation was that I'd officially gone mad. Grief can do that to a person, or so I've heard.

But the strangest thing was, I didn't mind feeling like someone else was with me. In fact, it felt sort of comforting.