Sometimes you just… you remember something from way back when… and it just hits you, you know? Like, BAM, right in the gut. Even after all these years. You think you’re over stuff, then a smell or a certain light or something, and you’re right back there. And it’s always something stupid, isn’t it? Not the big things, usually. It’s the little, embarrassing ones that stick. Like, you know that feeling when you’re in middle school… and everything is just… magnified? Every little thing is the END OF THE WORLD. Your clothes, your hair, if you say the wrong thing. Especially if it’s math class. Mrs. Henderson. She had those big glasses that slid down her nose and she always smelled faintly of stale coffee. And the test. Oh god, the test. You’re sitting there, pencil gripped so tight your knuckles are white, trying to remember what a hypotenuse even IS. And the whole room is just… silent. Except for the scratching of pencils and the occasional cough. And then… you feel it. That little… dampness. At first, you think, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you just spilled some water on your desk and it wicked through your jeans. You shift a little. No. It’s not water. It’s… warm. And it’s spreading. That cold dread, like a block of ice in your stomach. You look down. Slowly. Carefully. And there it is. A dark, spreading stain on your light-wash denim. Right on your inner thigh. And a little… streak… down the back. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to be SEEN. Your mind just goes blank. White noise. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. Mrs. Henderson is droning on about parabolas or something. And all you can think is, everyone is going to see. Everyone is going to KNOW. Your best friend, Susie, in the next row, she’ll see. And Mark Johnson, who you kinda… liked. He’ll definitely see. And the thought of that walk… the walk to the front of the class… to Mrs. Henderson’s desk… to ask to go to the nurse. You wait. You wait for what feels like an hour, maybe two. The bell is going to ring any minute. Maybe you can just… stay. Just stay there until everyone leaves. But no. That’s not how it works. You HAVE to go. You raise your hand. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Mrs. Henderson looks up, pushes her glasses. "Yes, [your name]?" And your voice, when it comes out, is a tiny squeak. "Can I… can I go to the nurse?" The walk. Oh, THE WALK. You try to hunch over, to cover it with your backpack, but your backpack is on your chair. You try to walk like you have a stiff leg, hoping no one notices the weird shuffle. Every single eye in that room is on you, you just KNOW it. The back of your neck is burning. You can hear whispering. Or maybe you just imagine it. You get to her desk, she writes a pass, not even looking up. And then the door. The loud CLUNK of the door closing behind you. Like it’s sealing your fate. And even now. Decades later. When you’re dealing with your own kids, or your mom asking for the millionth time where her reading glasses are… sometimes you just remember that feeling. That awful, gut-wrenching shame. That feeling of being so exposed. So… obvious. And you wonder if those other kids… if they remember. Do they? Probably not. They had their own stuff going on. Their own embarrassments. But it still… it still lingers. That little hitch in your breath. That flush of heat. And you just… you just wish you could forget it completely. But some things, they just stick. Like a bad stain. And you can’t ever really scrub them out. Even if you try.