My name is Pearl and I’m thirteen years old. In 2025, I lost Will to childhood cancer, but I will never lose his friendship.

I don’t remember meeting Will. He was always just there. My family moved into the house next door when we were about four, and from that day on, we started a playdate that lasted for years.

Will and I grew up together. I was there on his first day of school, we learned to ride our bikes together, and he was at all of my parties, including my Wizard of Oz fifth birthday, when he dressed up as the cutest lion ever.

As soon as we got home from anywhere, I’d leap out of the car and knock on Will’s door to play. There were so many made-up games and so much dancing. Will was always happy to dress up in my leotards and go crazy to a loud song in the lounge room. Our poor parents had to sit through so many shows.

During COVID, we had a Nerd Club. Not like smart nerds, like the lollies. We had ID cards and used walkie-talkies to track down evil Pokémon villains called the Go Rocket Team. Will always remembered who everyone was and made sure we found the bad guys.

Along with being incredibly fun and creative, Will was the kindest kid I knew. If I was ever sad or annoyed, he was there giving me a hug or telling me he was feeling the same way.

When Will was diagnosed with Leukaemia, I was devastated. We’d recently moved to Melbourne, and my brother, Felix and I felt like we’d left him behind. But I knew for sure that he would be positive and brave. Every time I saw him, whether in hospital or on FaceTime, he had a smile on his face.

Just after he was diagnosed, I cut off all my hair to raise money for charity. It was an easy decision. Will had always been so proud of his beautiful long hair, and I didn’t want him to feel alone when it started to fall out. I knew he would’ve done the same for me.

At first, everyone said he’d be okay, that he’d need a year of treatment and then go into remission. That he’d bounce back to the amazing Will we all loved. I believed them.

Even when Will told me he had a lower chance of survival, I didn’t believe him. Everyone said he had the “best” kind of cancer. I told him, “You’ll definitely survive.”

I should have listened to my best friend.

I FaceTimed Will two or three times a week. Sometimes he was doing okay, wearing his beanie and chatting with me, but other times, even though he tried to hide it, I knew he was struggling. Every time, I wished I could be there. I wished he wasn’t in pain. He didn’t deserve any of it. If I had one wish, it would be for Will to still be here with me.

That’s why I’m sharing our story, to help Sydney Children’s Hospitals Foundation (SCHF) change the future for more kids like Will.

No kid should have to go through what Will did. Cancer changes kids physically and mentally. They can’t be with their friends. They can’t go to school or play sport. They can’t have a normal childhood.

Whenever I was in Sydney, I spent as much time with him as I could. I tried to make him feel better by giving him hugs and holding his hand. I hope he knew how much we all loved him.

During a game at camp, I was asked: “What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do?” It was saying goodbye to Will. I couldn’t imagine life without him by my side. When I was about to leave the hospital for the very last time, Will’s dad woke him up to tell him I was leaving. Will had been sleeping most of the time and wasn’t talking. But when he heard, he sat up and gave me one last hug.

No one should ever have to say goodbye to someone they love. But I’m lucky I got the chance. Those last moments with him were the hardest of my life.

Words can’t describe the kind of kid Will was. He was extraordinary. Not everyone gets to have a friend they truly love. I was lucky enough to spend my childhood with Will.

Will always wanted to make the world a better place – whether it was at his school or on an international stage. I’m proud to honour his wish and help SCHF raise funds for specialist cancer care, research and clinical trials.

Donate today to help change the future of childhood cancer.