This story starts with a park bench.

I am sat right on the very end, my feet dangling. I am kicking my wellies against the leg, listening to the thump thump. We are sat as far away from each other as it is possible to be while remaining in the picture. He is leaning away from me as though physically repelled but I don't care - I feel exactly the same. The shutter clicks and out of the corner of my eye I see him, when he's sure no-one is looking, smile at me for a heartbeat. I don't look away.

The interlude's a park bench too. We're not sat side by side. I'm in his lap with his arms around me as the fireworks pop and crackle overhead. We're in our own little world, oblivious to the shrieks and laughs of our friends. The photo I see at the end of the night shows us, bathes in silver stars.

This story's middle isn't a park bench. It's a battlefield in Afghanistan. For him at least.

For me, it's a lecture hall, full of students taking notes. I should be taking notes as well but I'm not. I'm sneaking peaks at the screen of my phone. We're smiling up at me. But he's in his uniform, and there's a plane crossing the corner of the shot. A university prospectus is sticking out of the top of my backpack. We're tanned from seeing the world. Two young rebels, fighting the stereotype.

This parts a hospital bed, and the pictures a x-ray or shattered bones and punctured organs. The monitor is bleeping at me but I can't really hear it. I can't really hear anything over the sound of my heart. It's going thump thump, reminding me how alive I am, how much life is in me. The guilt is eating me alive.

This story ends with a park bench too.

We're sat on it, right in the middle. Our hands are linked. They're aged and wrinkled now, a liver spot by his thumb but I don't care. I don't care that his hair is grey or that there are lines around my eyes. I don't care that my voice quavers or that his hands shake. There is the snap of a shutter and our grandchildren laugh.