As she sat alone at night, orange peel staining the sheets, glasses of unfinished milk scattered around her room, she questioned all of the things that had brought her to this moment. She thought back to that moment when she was eight years old and threw her Spice Girls lunch box at a boy in the year below because he was talking too loudly. She feared all the mistakes she had made and all of the choices that she had got wrong. In the abyss between awake and sleep, she tried to clasp on to the tiny self inside of her that whispered: this is what was supposed to happen. But unfortunately, on this particularly night, that self could not be heard over the waves that crashed around inside her head.