Using the back of your forearm to wipe the beads of sweat that threatened to trickle into your eyes, you let out the puff of breath you had been holding, tenderly gazing at the sight in front of you whilst carefully tending the small patch of garden your mother had so kindly awarded you after months of begging. Her garden was her prized possession, not something to be trifled with, and she would surely not allow you even a centimetre sized patch until you proved you were serious about it. You remembered as a child how you watched her from afar, makeshift trowel and gloves at the ready to tackle whatever it had to offer. It was admirable the amount of dedication she showed when it came to it, much more than she had ever shown towards you.
It bothers me that we never ever hear of Clarke thinking about Wells. He was her best friend all her life and he’s only been dead 4 months and it’s like he never existed for her. Wells deserved so much more.