I’m standing in a sports bar in Sydney when it happens
(weirdly turning into a poignant venue type for me but that’s beside the point).

You call and it’s been forever so I’m worried someone’s died or something’s happened in the depths of the London night. Are you alright? Yes, you say. 100% yes.

But I'm not sure so I wade through the rowdy courtyard of men in wraparounds and girls standing strapless and pace out the front facing the beach trying to hear you over Coogee.

And the warmth of your words rushes down the line. I cup my hand over my mouth so it's clear and loud. Not because I don’t believe it but because I do. Because I want you to hear in my voice;

all our teen dreams we made lying on our backs across each other’s Spotlight duvets, on grassy banks up Te Mata Peak and in the passenger seats of each others’ first car. The ones we made

in our borrowed dresses and at second hand parties, the Archers we drank and the ones we weren't allowed, the heady milestones we held alongside each other, in one way or another,

slowly, wistfully, in one bent knee and a gold-ringed moment, everything you ever wanted, gently coming true.