Sometimes it’s hard to know why I’m still living.

Especially on days like these. Days filled with tireless disappointment; punctured with fear and hope and expectation; littered with dirty lies and rumours.

I remember one of these days very clearly. It was January 7th, and snow was just starting to sweep across the streets, like pretty icing. It was always a shame when boots stamped on freezing earth, but that couldn’t really be helped.

It was bitterly cold when I walked into school. A kid was outside the building, spraying the wall with red anger and a paint can. He didn’t notice me as I slipped inside.

When I walked into class, I kept my head down, as always. But the whispers were beginning anyway. I’d heard it all recently, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. But somehow today was different. I didn’t know why, only that it hurt so much.

“Hi, Sarah,” said a girl with too much make-up, those big shiny lips curving into a happy sneer.

I ignored her, taking my seat behind. But they wouldn’t leave me alone, not even when I took out Wuthering Heights and pretended to read. They just kept staring at me until I was forced to look up.

“That’s a nice book,” one of the boys said in a mock-serious voice, studying the cover. “Where did you get it? Can I see?”

I shook my head, but it was too late.

He had it out of my hands before I could say a word. Not that that would have made any difference, anyway. I watched as he ripped out all the pages I had marked. All the pages I loved. And somehow today wasn’t just another day. I knew it was stupid. I could get another copy, find all the pages I had folded down. I knew I shouldn’t cry because of them. But I did anyway.

“What’s this?” the boy said, his finger finding the first page. I knew it well. On it were the words: To Sarah. I know you will understand this, because I like you. Love Andy. P.S. try not to get it wet like last time.

“Who’s Andy?” he said, his nose too close to mine. When I didn’t reply, he got angry. “I asked you a question, Johnson. Who’s Andy?”

“He’s nobody,” I whispered.

That was true. He wasn’t anymore. He was dead.

“Whatever,” they were already turning away, disinterested. I had faded into my ugly grey chair because I was no longer entertaining. Like a broken toy.

I bent my head over the ruined book, and tried to tell myself it didn’t matter.

But it did. Because it was Andy’s.

Sometimes I think the people who leave us behind are the ones to be envied. Because this world isn’t for me.

I stuffed the last gift into my rucksack, and thought that sometimes, other people really had no idea of how much words bruised.


I listened to Mr Nixon talk about fossils and stupid things like that, all the while wondering whether this time next week, I would still be in this seat.

Or if I would be dead, too.

So, Andy, you got a lucky escape. But next time come back for me, okay?