The only bloke on God’s green earth I knew to be in prison just so happened to be holding out his hand in support when I landed in the hospital at Port Phillip Prison almost two years ago. Paris was in a cell awaiting transport for eye surgery. I was crippled and confused, fresh off a traumatic incident from hell. Paris was calm, kind and compassionate – exactly what I needed in a place full of... well, criminals.

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What are the chances – not only was he in the prison hospital at the same time but he was in the cell right next door?

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Due to my disability, I was stuck there longer, while Paris slipped in and out for treatments. Then this year, they found cancer. It hit him hard – and fast. Despite the pain, he stayed a gentleman. Kept his vibe high. When he didn’t return from St Vincent’s, the nurses told us the truth: it was much worse than he’d let on. He was in for the fight of his life.

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It didn’t matter what charge brought you in; Paris had a way of reading people. He could size you up, figure out what made you tick and find a way to offer something useful.

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Gentle with his words but firm with his truths, and in prison that kind of quiet strength is rarer than Vegemite. He used to say, “You’re not here to fight time – you’re here to learn from it.” And, like a proper sensei, he led more by example than by speech.

He got lumped with an extraordinary amount of time for his misdemeanours, yet never wasted it feeling sorry for himself. Blessed with a brilliant mind, Paris took real joy in mentoring other prisoners, especially on legal matters. He was the go-to guy when someone needed guidance, not judgement.

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As luck would have it, I got out on bail. Before I left, I got to feel that familiar joy again – Paris finding his way back to me, telling me how much he enjoyed reading my review of Fourth Wing in About Time. And, as his luck would have it, I gave him the actual book to read, plus the sequels. A voracious reader, he powered through all of them, along with some of the stories I’d written about our fellow inmates. He encouraged me to keep going. Said the stories mattered. Said they needed to be heard.

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Neither of us expected I’d be writing this one – about him.

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I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t go to his funeral. Couldn’t get past my own fear – of being judged, rejected or ridiculed by the friends we shared. No one tells you how hard life is after release. I reckon you’d have handled it better than I have, mate.

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The sense of belonging you find in prison is something you don’t realise you’ll miss until you’re out and alone, like I was today – no one checking in, no one to help me through.

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It’s gutting that you died spending your last eight years inside, especially when you were so close to the end of your sentence. And it’s gutless that I squandered the chance to see you off, when so many others would have leapt at it.

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I just couldn’t show my face.

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But I’m sure I speak for many when I say: rest peacefully, Paris.

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We love you, mate.