The #life Of Hugo July 17th 1997 Dear W.i.l., I have decided to call you that because it is shorter than saying "whoever is listening". It was a month ago since I first wrote to you, and I have to tell you it is still summer in which time I have been alone for all of it. I haven't been at school since Sam's death. Since...that day. The fight. The bridge. I am still having therapy and my therapist said to try to not think about it, but as winter draws nearer, it's becoming increasingly hard to forget. Sam was alive last year, sat on my bed, can't remember what we talked about of course. All seems so distant now. Lately I have noticed that Annie has been treating me more respectfully since it happened. I guess she's just being kind although I tell her I'm fine but she follows mums lead of bringing me tea in my room. I can tell she's sick of it. I can see it in her eyes, although she won't admit it in front of mum because she knows she will get told off for acting so mean to the "poor boy who's just lost his best friend". That's the type of thing adults say to other adults when your like eight and they don't want you to know who or what they're talking about. Even though mum says "Hugo, I know your fourteen, but your still my baby boy." Then she would hug me and I would breathe in the comforting smell of her musty perfume mixed with the scent of cooking. She wore that perfume before Sam... for a while she carried the scent of cigarette smoke until things started to get better and I came home from hospital, then we were alright. I need a friend even though I don't have any anymore. Sam's gone, and after that none of my other friends wanted to know me anymore. In September, I will start school and I will write then, but for now I have to go to the hospital for a health check. Mums calling. Love, Hugo