To Tony, and forever to Ashley

From the very start, you held a kind of key to me — not the kind you keep in your pocket, but the kind that unlocks a person’s most authentic self.

Tony, you were my first love. In those early days, when I was just becoming Jane — when the world felt uncertain and I was still finding my place — you made things believable. I had no friends, no family in Bolton, and yet there you were. You didn’t just see me; you saw Jane before anyone else did. You stood beside me at the very beginning of my life, and again after my transformation, when my body finally matched the truth I had always carried inside.

We drifted apart in time, as people sometimes do, but my love for you never faded. It lives in my heart, my soul, and in every quiet part of me that remembers how you simply stepped in — as if you already had the key. And in a way, you always did. That wasn’t the end of our story. You became my best friend.

And then, Ashley — when you let go of being Tony and stepped fully into yourself — we found each other all over again. I watched you grow into the woman you were always meant to be. I saw your courage, your humour, your stubborn streak, and your heart. Yes, you could drive me mad sometimes, and we had our little fallings‑out, but you always came back. You never stood on the doorstep of my life waiting to be invited in — you already had the key, and you used it when it mattered most.

There is one day I will never forget. The curtains were half‑drawn, letting in a thin, grey light that made the room feel smaller, heavier. The air was still, the kind of stillness that presses on your chest. I remember the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the ticking of the clock that seemed louder than it should have been. I was curled on the sofa, sinking deeper into myself, the weight of everything pressing me down.

And then — the sound of the front door opening. No knock, no pause, just the soft scrape of the key turning in the lock, the way only someone who belongs there can enter. You stepped inside as if you’d always been meant to, bringing with you the scent of the cold air outside and the quiet certainty of your presence. You didn’t ask permission, you didn’t hesitate — you came straight to me.

If it had not been for you walking through that door that day, I would have died on that sofa. You saved my life, Ashley. You didn’t just arrive — you unlocked something in me that had almost closed forever. For that, I can never thank you enough. That moment is stitched into me as deeply as any memory we ever shared. You weren’t just my friend that day — you were my lifeline.

Now that you’ve gone to a better place, I miss you every single day. Peter and I still laugh about that café you used to go on about every time we passed it on the way to my parents’ — not just once, but every time. You’re stitched into our stories, our laughter, our memories. You’re never really gone.

I remember Christmases with you — your “bah humbug” grumbles, and me threatening not to come over if you kept it up. But of course, I always did. Every year, except your last. And sweetie, I regret that with all my heart. I didn’t get to see you one last time, to hold your hand, to tell you again how much you meant to me.

But you’re still here. You’re in the jokes we tell, in the places we pass, in the way certain songs make me stop and smile. You’re in the warmth of a memory that catches me off guard, in the way I still hear your voice when I think of certain words. You’re in the way I carry myself, because you helped me believe I was worth loving from the very start.

You were my first love, my anchor, my mirror, my mischief‑maker, my safe place. And when love changed shape, you became my best friend — the kind of friend who never needed to knock, because she already had the key.

And now, Ashley, I keep that key with me — not in my hand, but in my heart. It will never rust, never be lost, and it will always open the door to the place where you still live inside me.

And when my door finally closes, I know you’ll be there — key in hand — to let me in.