It's been a couple of months since we last met. I set up our two folding chairs by the Canning River as usual, remembering our flowing conversations as we waited for the bottlenose dolphins to surface.

When we weren't searching for the playful pod, we'd watch for other wildlife. Sun-drenched cormorants amplifying their wings on a tree branch. Noisy seagulls sailing over the shimmering water. We'd fixate on our favourite pair of black swans plunging their endless necks into the water like head-standing yogis. I've read they have long and enduring relationships.

After a while, we'd settle back into our chairs and focus on our smooth flat whites. We'd sip. Laugh. Sip. Laugh some more. When the time was right, you'd take a breath and reveal the latest about the cancer.

Now, as I wait for my coffee to cool, I rummage through more memories shared across three decades of friendship. Becoming mothers. Birthday parties. Books. Watching tennis. Discussing Novak Djokovic. Christmas catch-ups. Cuddling puppies. Spaghetti marinara. Your recipe for lamb steaks with rosemary and sweet potato.

Today your chair remains empty as the waves mumble and I stare at the bloated blowfish belly-up on the shore. You'd warned me that we weren't going to share a future, talking rubbish and racing our walking frames. I should have believed you.

As I fold the chairs and prepare to go home, my bleary eyes scan our magical river one last time. If this was a fictional story, I know how we'd both like it to end. The dorsal fins would emerge, bodies shining like glazed ceramics, and we'd both go home happy. But that's not how true stories work.