Words for Nobody

I must’ve been about nine. That loose, liminal age where your sense of self is still made of borrowed scraps — the way your mum parts her hair, the songs your older cousin plays in the car, the smell of someone else's house that you think might be better than yours. I was wearing a jumper too big for me and shoes that squeaked on the assembly hall floor. It was a Thursday, which meant recorder practice, custard, and the boy with the chipped front tooth.

He was cool in the effortless way of kids who don’t try. I, meanwhile, tried so hard I nearly tipped over with it. I remember clutching The Secret Garden, trying to look like I understood the sadness of it all. I remember drawing a crow in blue biro on my pencil case. I remember laughing — too loud — when he said something vaguely funny, because I wanted to be seen. Not liked, necessarily. Just noticed. Just enough to change the temperature of the room when I walked in.

That was the first time I remember wanting to impress someone. Not because I wanted them to love me. I didn’t even know what that meant yet. But because I wanted to be something. Interesting. Strange, but in a curated way. Worth the space I took up.

Of course, he barely looked my way. Of course, I pretended I didn’t care. But that flicker — of trying to be shinier, cleverer, a little more like someone he'd remember — has never really left me. It’s just evolved: into mixes burned at midnight, book recommendations too carefully chosen, eyeliner sharp enough to wound.

Funny how a moment that small can echo for years.