I’m sitting on the bathroom floor at 3 AM because if I stay in bed I’m going to scream and wake up the whole house and then I have to be the one to deal with the fallout. Again. I was folding laundry—my husband’s, my kids’, even the stuff my mother-in-law left over here—and I saw a shadow on a pair of light blue jeans and it just triggered this visceral, disgusting memory of seventh grade. It’s like I’m back in Mr. Henderson’s math class. The smell of that industrial lemon cleaner and stale chalk. I can literally feel the hard plastic of the chair against my thighs. It was a Tuesday. I remember because Tuesday was the day I had to walk home and start dinner before my mom got back from her double shift at the clinic. I was thirteen and already basically the head of household (my dad was long gone and my mom was a ghost of a person back then). I felt it halfway through the mid-term. That slow, warm, rhythmic leak. It’s a specific kind of horror. It’s not just "oh no," it’s an existential crisis in real time. I knew I was wearing those tan khakis. The ones with the thin fabric. Why did I even own those? Why didn't anyone tell me they were a bad idea? I tried to sit perfectly still. I thought if I didn't move, maybe the laws of physics would rewrite themselves. Maybe the liquid would just... evaporate? (Pathetic, I know). But Henderson was pacing. He had those squeaky shoes. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Every time he passed my row I held my breath until my lungs burned. I was a straight-A student. I was the reliable one. I couldn't just get up and leave—I had to finish the test because if I didn't get the scholarship eventually, we were never getting out of that apartment. I was the one who had to be perfect so my mom wouldn't have anything else to worry about. The bell rang and it sounded like a death knell. Everyone started shuffling, shoving papers, laughing. I stayed seated. Henderson looked at me over his glasses. Time's up, Sarah. Bring it here. I could see the back of my chair. It was dark. Stained. I felt the panic rising in my throat like bile. My heart was thumping so hard I thought it would crack a rib. I had to stand up. I HAD TO. I couldn't stay there forever. I grabbed my backpack and tried to swing it low, but the straps were caught on the corner of the desk. I stood up and I felt the cold air hit the dampness on the back of my legs. It was the most exposed I have ever felt in my entire life. I started walking toward the front of the room. I felt the wetness move with me. It was sticky. Gross. I could hear the whispers starting before I even hit the third row of desks. Oh my god, look at her pants. It was a girl named Chloe. She didn't even whisper it, she just said it with this clinical, detached cruelty. I didn't look back. I couldn't. I just kept my eyes on Henderson’s desk. My face was so hot I thought I was actually going to catch fire. I handed him the paper and his eyes flicked down for a microsecond—just long enough for me to see the pity.