Four hundred and eleven comments. People I have never met, in my own town, describing me. That poor baby. I can’t stop thinking about that little girl on the stairs.

A woman who I later worked out is the mother of a boy in my chemistry class wrote she’ll carry this forever with a crying emoji, in public, when I was eleven.

I got recognised. That’s the part nobody would predict. Not often — maybe six times over three years — but a woman in a supermarket in Milbrook stopped my mother and me by the freezers when I was thirteen and said oh, is this her?

and then crouched down slightly, to talk to a thirteen-year-old, and said, “You’re so brave, sweetheart.”

I hadn’t done anything. I sat on some stairs.

And the thing about grief that’s been made public before you can spell most of the words for it is that you don’t get to find out what you actually feel.