‘You must feel so empty now,’ they whispered, knowing eyes filled with crocodile tears, faces twisted into grimaces as we stood over his grave. The flowers looked out of place in such a dreary place, vibrant and colourful against the pale marble. The only speck of colour in a sea of monochromes, all white and grey and black. Death isn’t the black of the midnight, it’s the white of his skeleton, the white of his grave, the white of the ambulance that picked him up the day it happened. I remember every morbid detail vividly, although I’ve tried so hard to move on. I try to think of something cheerful whenever I feel this way. All of us roasting marshmallows, laughing around the blazing bonfire. Getting drunk on New Year’s Eve, a blur of flashing lights and glitter and dance music. Playing paintball together, ruining our clothes. Black is the…