There’s a mural on my wall, but it isn’t finished yet. It stretches behind my bed, with signatures and sentiments hanging off a childishly crude rainbow. At the time I clearly didn’t know the difference between indigo and violet.

On top of the rainbow are my parents’ words. I used to keep whatever they said in a small book of quotes, but now I’ve painted them across the cream surface of my wall, to keep the memories there always.

Under the rainbow’s multichrome tiers are the doodlings of friends now and former, littered with patchy smiley faces and handprints in all the six colours of the rainbow.

I always left the centre open, hoping one day that I could find someone who would paint a heart there, and carve his and my initials into the plaster of my wall.

That person never entered my room, my life or my mural. The mural lays blank as I lie on my childhood bed and sleep for the last time.