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We lost Tommo on a Monday. Found him in his van. Engine running. Note on the dashboard. He was 34 years old. Married. Two kids under six. Best chippy I'd ever worked with. And nobody knew. That's the thing they don't tell you about blokes on building sites. We don't talk. Not really. Not about the stuff that matters. We take the piss. We moan about the weather. We slag off the foreman. We talk about football and betting and whose missus is giving them grief. But we don't talk about how we're actually doing. We don't say: "I couldn't get out of bed this morning." We don't say: "I've been having thoughts." We don't say: "I'm scared." Because that's not what blokes do. Not on site. Not anywhere. So we suffer in silence. And sometimes, the silence wins. Tommo had been with us for six years. Six years of tea breaks and bacon rolls and rainy Tuesdays where we all huddled in the portacabin complaining about the weather. Six years of "you alright?" "Yeah, sound. You?" "Sound." Neither of us ever told the truth. The funeral was brutal. His wife. His kids. His mum asking "why didn't he talk to someone?" None of us had answers. We went back to work the next week. Same site. Same portacabin. His tools still in the container because nobody could face touching them. And we didn't talk about it. Because that's not what blokes do. Then Macca showed up wearing this hoodie. Black. Words on the back. "What's that about?" someone asked. Macca shrugged. "Ordered it after the funeral. Figured if Tommo had seen something like this... maybe he would have said something. Maybe he would have known we actually meant it when we said 'you alright.'" We stood there. Reading his back. "Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it." Nobody spoke for a while. The banter stopped. The jokes stopped. For maybe the first time in years, we just stood there in silence that meant something. Then Gav said: "Where'd you get it?" Macca told him. By Friday, all eight of us had one. Eight blokes. Same crew. Same hoodies. We wear them on site now. Under the hi-vis when it's cold. Over it when it's not. And something changed. We still take the piss. Still moan about the weather. Still slag off whoever's in charge. But we also ask properly now. "You alright?" And if someone shrugs, we ask again. "No, mate. Actually. How are you doing?" First time Macca asked me like that, I nearly cried. "Honestly?" I said. "I've been struggling since Tommo. Can't stop thinking about it. Keep wondering if I should have noticed something." He nodded. "Same," he said. "Same." And we just sat there. Two blokes in matching hoodies. Actually talking. That's what these things do. They give you permission. Permission to ask. Permission to answer honestly. Permission to not be alright. Last month, a new lad joined the site. First day. Saw all eight of us in matching hoodies. "What's the deal with those?" I told him about Tommo. About finding him in the van. About the note on the dashboard. About his kids asking where daddy was. The new lad went quiet. "My older brother," he said. "Same thing. Last year. Found him in his flat." We didn't say anything. Just let him talk. He ordered a hoodie that night. Ninth one now. His first week on site, and he'd already told us about his brother. Something he'd never told anyone at any other job. Because he saw the hoodies. And he knew we'd understand. That's what Tommo's death gave us. Permission to talk. It cost too much. Way too much. But we're not wasting it. Front says "You're Enough." Back says "Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it. Love, the person in front of you." We lost Tommo on a Monday. Engine running. Note on the dashboard. Nobody knew. Now all nine of us wear this. And we make sure everyone knows they can talk. We can't bring him back. But we can make sure nobody else on this site suffers alone. Not again.