Maybe you didn’t mean to hurt me. But when someone asks if anyone remembers me, and the first thing you say is that I was weird, I don’t know how it can be meant in any other way. I know I was, I really do. In primary school I was unsociable, with two or three friends, but that gives you no right to taint my memories of that place, that time, by reminding me of the bad. Would you want me to talk about you like that? Remind you that you weren’t perfect as a child?

Do you know what else hurts? The fact that none of you bothered to stick up for me. Even the one person who I was friends with. You all laughed, then went on to exchange contact details. I know you never cared about me. I was weird, bad at making friends. But those friends I had? I loved them beyond anything. It broke my heart to leave, even though I was the last girl who had been there in my class for FS2. I had no friends left. Maybe I never did. But what’s the use in wallowing in self-pity.

You disgust me, with your sneery messages, the way you were so quick to laugh, to judge. And I’m bloody well better off now than I ever was there. I have friends who won’t leave, who won’t let me cry alone as they walk off with the new girl. Because I remember you Harmonie. I remember you when you were brand new, slated to stay for three years and then move on. And I already knew your type. Mean in the only way a ten year-old can be. And I remember you too, Blake. I remember how you came up to me, asked if I was gay, laughed when I walked away. It may have been six years ago, but I have a long memory, and one day when I am happy and surrounded by my friends, I will find you, and I will ask you if it makes you feel good about yourself, to mock a girl you barely spoke to for something that happened when you were ten.

Yes: it hurts. But moving made me stronger, harsher. I’m not just a dreamer any more. And I know that it’s okay to weep a little weep, and then to dry my eyes, leave your group chat, and get on with my life without you interfering.

It’s okay to be different, to be weak, as long as I pick myself up after the fall, and make sure that you damn well know that I don’t care. Because I don’t.

Not any more.