"Tim," I tried again, appealing to the curled up form that lay on top of the duvet. There was no reply.
I sighed and clambered onto the larger than usual bed that we had just bought.
"Tim?"
I curled myself around him and held him close, hating the heartbreaking sound of his sobs as he tried to be quiet about his grief.
"Talk to me sweetie, let me help."
He only cried harder.
"He wasn't that old," he said softly, still in shock. "It's just not fair."
He gave a harsh laugh.
"I didn't even know him that well, it's just that he made such a difference to me in that horrible place and I owe him so much."
"It's okay to be upset," I hushed him and kissed his cheek, stroking his hair back from his face as I did. He picked at his lower lip with his fingers and took deep breaths.
"He was the one who persuaded me to become a writer," he smiled boyishly and I felt myself smile with him.
"Do you want me to come with you to the funeral," I asked.
"That's okay," he mumbled. "You probably have to work."
I let out an almost exasperated sigh.
"You come first, you always will."
He shuffled closer to me then and we lay there for what must have been an hour. Just thinking.