This is what I’ve been trying to figure out over the past few weeks and months, since I heard the news that Emma, a friend from church had been killed in a hit and run in Manchester. On the night it happened she’d spent the night with others from our community group watching England’s world cup game. I wasn’t there, as I’d just got back from filming in London, but where the accident happened was very close to my flat.

Hearing the news the next day via Whatsapp was a massive shock – so much so that my first instinct was to assume it must be about a different Emma that I didn’t know. In those few seconds my brain couldn’t handle the thought that someone so full of life, who less than 24 hours ago had been messaging us all about pizza toppings, could suddenly not be alive anymore. I also had a weird kind of feeling, maybe it was guilt or just trying to make sense of the timescale…but it suddenly seemed very strange that I’d been happily going about my day for the last 24 hours totally oblivious to what had happened. Are these signs of grief, or just symptoms of shock? Who knows…

As I found out more about what had actually happened, turning to newspaper articles to try and piece it all together, I recognised the location of the accident – somewhere enroute to Emma’s tram stop. We’d walked home together the week before, but taken a different route – one that went past my front door. If I or one of the others who normally walked home with Emma had been there, would she still have been on that road at that time? We’ll never know. But even though we know thinking about the ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’ isn’t helpful we still do it. Is that grief? Does the definition also include a need to try to rationalise or look for answers?

And what about crying at random times – like on the train, in the queue at McDonalds, mid prayer, or almost a month later coming home after a night out? What is it I’m crying for? I don’t even know, because it’s an involuntary reaction. I haven’t decided to cry (if I had, it certainly wouldn’t have been in such awkwardly public settings) but my body’s clearly decided I need to either to get rid of something or let something out. Is it grief my body’s trying to get rid of? I’ve got no medical knowledge or opinions, all I know is that for some reason it works. For some reason after a good cry, I feel a little bit better.

Grief is also hard to measure. I’d only known Emma for around 7 months – a relatively short amount of time – so the loss of her from my life is obviously not even a fraction of the sense of loss her family and close friends feel. But we will all miss her, cherish the memories we have, and mourn the loss of time in the future we could have had with her, even if as Christians we know we’ll see her again one day.

We still meet every Sunday at church, and every Wednesday at community group like nothings changed. But Emma’s absence has and will be felt – because in everything from deep discussions to ridiculous banter, Emma was at the heart of it.

I could very easily have never met Emma, but I’m extremely glad that I did. And weird as it may sound, I’m very much looking forward to seeing her again whenever that day comes.

Here’s some of highlights from a weekend we spent in the Lake District with Emma back in May.

Two weeks ago today was the first anniversary of the Manchester Arena attack. Similarly on that day, a minutes silence was held around the city, to give us a chance to think about the 22 people who were killed.

On both these occasions, I, like probably a lot of other people, ended up thinking back to what I was doing on the night it all happened.

On the morning after the London Bridge attack I remember waking up in Guernsey, drained after completing a massive 40-mile charity walk the day before. Oblivious to what had happened I reached for my phone and then saw the BBC news alert, and the mass email from my news editor asking who in the team could be on the next train to London to cover and report on the horrific events.

On the night of the Manchester Arena attack, even though I was living in Manchester at the time, I was nowhere near the Arena or even the City Centre. Again in fact, I was in bed when I heard the news.

I’d only moved to the city and started a new job (my current job) a few weeks earlier, and with the early starts and long commute I was constantly shattered. I’d gone to bed ridiculously early, but I remember waking up at about 11pm – about half an hour after the bomb had gone off – and picking up my phone to see the BBC News alert. Everyone on Facebook who’d heard the explosion was wondering what it was. At first there was speculation a speaker had blown somewhere in the arena. But it wasn’t long before the horrific reality became clear. People started frantically sharing images of missing loved ones on social media in a bid to track them down. I spent most of the rest of the night live streaming BBC News and keeping an eye on Twitter to try and follow what was going on.

I was due to be off work the next day. But as a journalist it seemed ridiculous to sit at home watching the news when I felt I should be there helping to make it – so I emailed my editor to offer my services. News broke throughout the day, as victims were named, and the police confirmed their timeline of what had actually happened. Manchester was in shock as we all tried to process the fact that it had happened in our city, in a place a lot of us pass by all the time. The reality was dawning that nowhere was “safe”. The fact that going to a concert shouldn’t be a high-risk activity, made no difference. And disgust set in at the way children had been deliberately targeted. But among the shock and sorrow, there was a grit. A determination not to be cowed. I went to St Anne’s Square a few days later to see the thousand and thousands of bouquets, cards, teddies, and balloons laid in tribute. Strangers sobbed together. Biker gangs rode by en mass to try and send the message that Manchester was not afraid.

Until then I hadn’t felt any particular attachment to Manchester. It was just a city, where I was going to be working for a few months, before going back to Guernsey (I didn’t know then that my work contract would be extended twice more). And to be completely honest I wasn’t all that sold on the city’s charms, instead constantly and unfavourably comparing it to my old adopted home of Glasgow. But as I stood in St Anne’s Square, and heard the inspirational stories of love and sacrifice from people doing their best to help, I started to feel part of something. Through the worst possible circumstances I’d come to see the heart of the city. The pride of those who lived there. The defiant outrage that someone should threaten it. And the indignation that young people visiting the city for a fun night at a concert, had been robbed of their right to safely return home again.

I’ve now been in Manchester for a year, and am due to stay here for another. I certainly don’t think I’ll stay here forever. But while Belfast will always be my home, Manchester has certainly gained a place in my affections – something I didn’t expect to happen at all, never mind, for it to happen so quickly.