Scars That Still Hurt.

One time, back in 4th grade, I had a friend. Or at least, I thought I did.

It started small... maybe a sudden laughter that wasn’t with me but at me. Before I could process it, she had turned my other friends against me.
Overnight, I became the target. The girl to be mocked. The one they all pointed at and whispered about.

Her mother believed every word she said, without question. She spread stories that I was the reason her daughter had panic attacks.
As a fourth grader I barely knew what that even meant.
I wasn’t a villain.
I was just a child.
But suddenly, I was treated like one.

The bullying didn’t stop.
They mimicked me. Ignored me. Laughed at me.

Her brother once lied that I’d mocked their cousin’s streaked hair.
I don't even recall caring if someone's hair was pink.
That was enough reason for her to command him to pull my hair, yank my tie, tug at my skirt... right there,
in front of the whole. packed. bus.
I remember looking at her with hope, hope that my 'once friend' will stop him.
She looked away.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
I carried that silence. I never told anyone... not even my mother.
Deep down, I feared that somehow, I would still be the one blamed.
So I cried alone. Hid my face. Tried to breathe under a weight no nine-year-old should ever have to carry.

Until one day, I walked into the counsellor’s office. Not because I had the courage to speak... but because I simply had nowhere else to go.

And then, just like that, she left. Moved away. Gone forever.

And I finally… breathed.

But the scars didn’t leave with her.
Even now, those memories haunt me. They bring chills, tears, and a deep, dull ache that come back everytime i remember how my friends abandoned me.
A part of me will always remember...
the nine-year-old girl who endured so much with no one to take her side.
No one to believe her.