hankfully I don’t die.

The bicycle just clips me, and the only real damage is a bloody knee and elbow and quite a large hole in my leggings, pride and mental stability. A tiny lady swoops down to pick me up and guides me gently across the road. By the time I’ve stopped shaking enough to thank her, she’s gone.

Rocking my suitcase on its side, I ignore the dubious glances from the crowds and sit heavily on the floor next to it.

I want to go home.

I want to go home more than I have ever wanted anything before in my entire life.

I want to be in my tiny stupid bedroom, putting fossils on overcrowded shelves and trying to stop my dog from eating talcum powder. I want to be studying Shakespeare and Milton and star constellations; I want to be worrying about chemistry formulas and physics equations instead of dresses and poses and octopuses and kisses. I want to see my dad dancing around the living room and I want to see Annabel laughing at him and Hugo getting all over-excited. I want to see Nat roll her eyes at me and Toby wipe his nose on his jumper. I even want to see Alexa. Nice, predictable Alexa. Who hates me with the least amount of effort and national newspaper coverage possible.

I just want everything to be exactly how it was.

Maybe this is what happens to the butterfly and the frog. Maybe they go to so much effort to grow wings and legs and run away, and when they see a little bit of the world they just feel sad and lonely and end up hopping straight back home again. Where they belong.

I pick my phone up and ring Dad. There’s no answer.

I try Annabel: her phone is off.

Then I try Bunty: engaged.

I call Nat and get her voicemail again, then try Toby. It rings a few times before suddenly switching off.

Did Toby just hang up on me? Am I now so pathetic that my own stalker just cancelled my call?

That does it.

I pull my jumper tightly over my head. And I start crying.