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Sophie

Saying goodbye to Adam for the last time ever was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in my life.

I wanted to memorise his features: the piercing blue eyes, the dimple in his cheeks when he smiles, and the hollow at the base of his throat I used to kiss.

I tried to capture every single detail in my mind but felt them slip away as I walked down the street.

I hadn’t known this grown-up version of Adam long enough to remember all the subtle changes.

I don’t have an up-to-date photo to study or enough memories from a single encounter.

I had to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from asking for a ‘famous’ hug.

And it took all my willpower not to glance over my shoulder for a final look before I turned the corner.

I let out another muffled cry into my pillow. I’ll never learn the truth because I can’t get involved, I won’t meet Adam again.

That was the last time I’ll ever hear his laugh or watch him run his hand through his hair, become emotional when he talks about Wren or his dad, tear up a napkin while deep in thought and close his eyes when tasting carrot cake. We’ll never kiss and cuddle.

I climb out of bed and switch on the light.

Sleep is impossible. I pull on jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt and head into the kitchen.

The carrot cake from the café is in the bin; I knew I’d probably choke on a single mouthful.

Food is spattered on the stove and Rakesh has left his dirty pans and plates before going on shift.

I could leave another moany note, but cleaning helps take my mind off things.

After scrubbing everything thoroughly and mopping the floor, I grab a glass of water and return to my room to hunt for painkillers.

I tap out a message on my phone for Adam to read when he wakes up, claiming I need to stick to my earliest available appointment date: 21 April.

He doesn’t realise it will never happen because it’s after his numbers run out.

My finger hovers over the send button. What if Adam’s right and this quilt will help Wren?

I delete the message and sit at my desk.

I need to keep busy and distract myself from Adam’s countdown.

I’ll create a large quilt to sell on my website and Etsy that will be intricate and difficult to construct.

I sketch out complex variations on a mariner’s compass design, but my mind keeps going back to the numbers from my past.

12 .

That’s how many people I tried and failed to help, culminating in Joan. Their faces haunt me, particularly the children.

Adam could be my thirteenth attempt.

My head is telling me I can’t do anything, but my heart refuses to accept the truth.

I draw a large 13, double-underline it and add a question mark.

The number is considered unlucky in this culture, but isn’t the opposite true in China?

I’m sure I’ve read somewhere it’s supposed to mean ‘definitely vibrant’ or ‘assured growth’.

I can’t shake the feeling it might signal promise.

I sketch a 13-sided shape, which would be tricky to reproduce in fabric.

I increase the size and change the lengths of the sides until I come up with an outline for a cardboard template.

If these shapes slot together to form small clusters, I could incorporate them into a complex series of panels in the centre of my design.

It would take weeks, months , to get the pattern right.

Using a methodical step-by-step approach to crack a problem could help me work out what is doomed to happen to Adam.

The nib of my pen grinds into the paper, ripping it.

What the hell am I doing?

I shove the diagram into my notepad and slam it shut before I descend any further down this rabbit hole of madness.

It’s utterly futile.

It doesn’t matter what I plan, design or sew.

Adam’s number can’t be changed.

He will die in just over 3 weeks’ time.