We go to Lakshmi’s house on the Friday. Niamh’s best friend. She died as well. Her brother, Thiyash, is going to be one of Niamh’s pallbearers, apparently. So that’s him, Jess, her other uncle who’s coming tomorrow, and her History teacher, which is sweet. I’m pretty sure all my teachers hate me. Or at least, they wouldn't care enough to carry my coffin.

Christ, that has to be a terrible call to get from a student’s parents.

They’ve already had Lakshmi’s funeral. They’re going to Cornwall to scatter her ashes tomorrow. I take off my shoes as I enter, placing them next to a pair of mud-stained Converse. I can’t help but think if they were Lakshmi’s. Her school blazer is still hanging in the hallway, and her rucksack was on the floor. A folder hangs out of it, a sticky note on it, labelled “HAND IN - TUESDAY” in bold.

She’ll never get to hand it in now.

Lakshmi’s mum - Aadarshini - makes us all a cup of tea, giving us her condolences, which Jess promptly returns, as if rejecting the original. I sit at the end of the dining table, awkwardly sipping my tea, even when it burns my tongue.

Her picture is on a table in the dining room. A glass of apple juice sits next to it, along with a small plate of curry and roti, and something shiny and orange that looks like it's smothered in syrup. The whole table is covered in flowers and marigolds, and a stick of incense burns in front of it all.

The ember at the top curls over into ash, breaking off the shell of that beneath it. It all falls down into the holder, revealing the orange core under it, and keeps burning. It all feels like a massive metaphor, I just don't know what for.

I look at her picture. I know that picture. It was her birthday - September 28th. It’s cropped, but I know Niamh is standing next to her - that was the first picture of Niamh that Jess showed us.

She was pretty, but not especially so. She looks like a normal sixteen-year-old; she definitely could’ve been some girl in the year above me, who I’d never know.

That part weirds me out.

She’s smiling, her lips are rose gold, and she’s wearing a cream crop top, with a newspaper print heart on it. She’s posing over her cake, peace signs on both hands, so I can see the amount of bangles on her wrists. The cake is chocolate, ‘Happy Birthday, Lakshmi!’ written in white icing across it. The ‘16’ candle is lit, dripping wax down its sides, and she’s using half of her arm to stop her pink-streaked hair from falling into the flames.

There’s an awful irony in that, using a birthday picture as a funeral memorial.

She’s at the dinner table in the picture, and the family photos in the background are the exact ones I’m sitting in front of. There’s one of her and Thiyash from when they were little, with a bunch of other kids, who I think are her cousins. She’s wearing a pink sari, trying to wrestle a sparkler out of her brother’s hands.

Smiling.