His jumper always smelt like cigarettes and coffee and home and a thousand things she couldn't say.

There was one hot, sticky night in June, pouring with rain, where they had lain on the asphalt and he taught her that the best feeling you could have was being as free as you could be.

Lying on that road was the freest she had ever been.

He showed her that there was no better time to be had in the world than eating stale popcorn and talking with someone who cared.

Every day he taught her something about herself, how much she wanted to be wanted, and how hard it was not to want him back.

The asphalt had burnt her back and the rain had made her mascara run and the popcorn had stuck in her throat, but she had thrown her head back and laughed like she had never laughed before.

She held his hand as they ran for shelter, her eyes bright, and her mouth curved into a smile.

He pulled her close to him as they panted, burying his face into her hair.

She turned around to face him, her breath escaping in small giggles, sweeping her soaking hair off her face.

Sometimes she fancied herself in love with him, but she knew that as summer gave way to winter, so too would her feelings fade away.

He took her to the fair in July; they ate corndogs with mustard and sticky pink candyfloss, she sat behind him and wrapped her arms around his back on the carousel, and he thought that if he could only take one memory with him when he died, it would be this one.

She slept in his jumper every night, the smell of his aftershave wrapping around her in a cocoon.

He slept with her photograph next to his bed, dreaming of things that he knew could never be.

In August they took a road trip to Blackpool, he played the grab machines until he won the teddy bear she wanted, and she stood next to him and laughed.

She kept the bear close for the next month, confiding all her secrets to his wise eyes, his soft nose.

September came, and he walked her to St Pancras, helped her load her luggage on the train, kissed her on the cheek and wished her well for the future, blinking back tears as the train pulled away.

She sat resting her head on the window, pulling his jumper up over her nose, cradling the teddy bear close.

She took in the smell that was so him, cigarettes and coffee and all the things she'd never managed to say, and felt a tear slip down her face at the knowledge that she would never see him again.

She wished she'd plucked up the courage to tell him that she loved him, that she was head over heels and it ached.

But the seasons had changed and so had she.