It was the people’s voices in the hallway that grabbed my attention. It was the squeaky desks and creaky doors. The yelling and screaming of the younger kids and the exasperated sighs of the older ones. It was the whispering and under-the-breath comments that trickled into my ears. The side glances and judge-filled stares. When I walked into a room my stomach would drop. Thoughts would fill my head, thoughts that people had planted there. People had always been mean to me, but it had started getting worse when I went into seventh grade. My feet felt heavy like my shoes were filled with lead when I walked. My head hung low almost as if it was being pulled to the ground by something. I saw people’s eyes dart from person to person as I would step into a room. I could feel the walls closing in on me, feel the pressure of the room becoming stronger and stronger with every passing minute. Hands shot up in the classroom, but mine was the last to raise, scared about what would happen if I got the answer wrong. Standing in a room I felt invisible like I could scream and no one would even flinch. People would stop talking when I entered a room, move away when I sat down, chuckle to themselves when my only friend would be absent and I was forced to sit alone. It was the locks being butterflied and the cruel notes being shoved inside. It was being partners with the teacher when she said partner up. It was the pinky promises that were broken and the hearts dropping when they said I can’t hang out with you anymore.