We were sitting on the floor of my room. She was crying her eyes out, and I mean really crying. I’d never seen anyone cry like that before. It was genuine pain, and I had no idea what I was doing.

“I don’t think I can say it out loud.”

“What if you wrote it down?” I sheepishly suggested.

“That might work…”

She looked around my room, surveying her options. There was an old CRT monitor on the floor, yellowed and dusty, radiating a distinct lack of purpose as it flickered away with what I thought was quite a respectful Minesweeper score. I ignored the urge to ask her to save my initials before she took control of the computer and pulled up Notepad, staring through sodden eyes at a blank page.

“You can’t watch me.”

“But I’m going to read it anywa-”

“Please. Just look away.”

Baffled, I complied. As she furiously typed away at the crumb-ridden keyboard, my mind was racing. She was about to confide in me something she’d never even vocalised.

Tap, tap, tap.

It could be anything, and I’d have to react to it. How was I supposed to react? What if she’d done something stupid and I got angry? Even worse, what if I laughed? I did that when I was nervous…

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

This wasn’t something I’d dealt with before. I wasn’t the right person for this, surely. I was terrified.

Silence.

I turned around to catch a glimpse of her staring intently at the screen, dry-eyed, but sore and drained. She was digesting what she’d just unlocked and thrown out into the open – a modern-day Pandora. The old monitor now had its purpose. It was Pandora’s Box, had it been made of weathered plastic. It was as if the words she was reading were alien to her, written by someone else.

The crying started again. Softer this time, but still as painful. This was my cue. She retreated to the sofa, sobbing into a Superman duvet cover. That’s what she needed, I thought. Someone strong and brave, not a weedy little 14-year-old kid whose biggest problem was that his Mum refused to let him build a skate ramp in the front garden.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and swung the monitor around to be faced with a single paragraph. Somehow, I expected more. Somehow, the thought crossed my mind that she should have used Word. Notepad’s formatting had always annoyed me. I quickly buried that thought.

As I read her words, I was suddenly aware of the tension. She had stopped crying again, and I felt like I was taking a polygraph test. I had to stay silent. She was judging every breath, every shuffle, every click of the mouse as I traversed her outpouring. I didn’t want her to start imagining me judging her, so I quickly powered through the last few sentences. She sat there, anticipating my reaction.

When I had finished reading, I was no longer terrified, baffled or nervous. It was about her feelings, not mine. She had confided in me unimaginable pain. I had always known she wasn’t happy, but I’d just learnt that I actually knew nothing of what was actually going on inside her head.

I sat beside her, put my arm around her and pulled her close. She held on. I’m not sure how long I held her for, but her tears stopped falling and her breathing evened. She’d fallen asleep, either from exhaustion or a sense of safety. Probably both.

I don’t think anything else needed to be said at the time.

After all, a cuddle says a thousand words.