Now that this scared little girl no longer follows me wherever I go, I miss her, I do, because there are things I want to tell her - to relax, to lighten up, that it is all going to be okay. I want her to know that meeting people who like you, who understand you, who actually accept you for who you are, will became an increasingly rare occurrence. These people who contributed to who I am, they're with me wherever I go, and as history gets rewritten in small ways with each passing day, my love for them only grows. Because the truth is... it was the best of times. Mistakes were made, hearts were broken, harsh lessons learnt, but all of that has receded into fond memory now. How does it happen? Why are we so quick to forget the bad and romanticise the good? Maybe it's because we need to believe that the time we spent together actually meant something, that we were there for each other in a time in our lives that defined us all.