The End of Loneliness

by Benedict Wells

A difficult childhood is like an invisible enemy, I thought. You never know when it will strike.

There were things I couldn’t say; I could only write them. Because when I spoke, I thought; and when I wrote, I felt.

‘The question is, what wouldn’t be different? What would be the immutable part of you? The bit that would stay the same in every life, no matter what course it took. Are there elements in us that survive everything?’