Most of my lower secondary school years were filled with bullying, isolation, and feeling like I never truly belonged. It wasn't just one of those temporary feelings that come and go—it was something that sat with me every day. Like a shadow. Like no matter what I did, I was always on the outside, watching everyone else live their lives while I stood still.
There were moments when I genuinely felt like the entire class was united—except me. That kind of unity doesn't sound like a bad thing at first, until you realize you're the only one excluded. It was as if the whole class shared some unspoken connection that I wasn't a part of. I was just… there. Sitting in class, walking in hallways, eating in the canteen—always physically present, but never emotionally included.
One incident that still sticks with me happened in Secondary 3. I remember it so clearly. It wasn't even meant to be a big thing, but to me, it confirmed everything I feared. I accidentally glanced over at my friend's phone screen and saw something that instantly made my heart sink—a group chat. A different one. One that wasn't the official class chat with teachers, but a separate, private group. One where the class really communicated, joked, and bonded. And guess what? The entire class was in it. Everyone… except me.
I can't even begin to explain how it felt. That kind of exclusion isn't loud or dramatic—it's silent. It's a small pain that quietly eats at you. I had always suspected that I was left out, but seeing it right in front of my eyes made it real. And somehow, the fact that no one even thought to add me made it worse. Not one person.
In that moment, I looked at my friend differently. Her name was Dhaniyah. We had grown closer after being randomly grouped for a Geography project back in Secondary 2. That was how we started talking. Slowly, she became someone I would consider a close friend, even one of the few people who made my school life a bit more bearable after so much pain.
It's ironic though—because before all of this, Dhaniyah had actually been part of the clique that spread a disgusting rumor about me. They said I didn't wash my underwear. And as ridiculous as it sounds now, it really damaged how others saw me—and how I saw myself. It was humiliating. I knew she was involved, or at least associated with the people who started it. But at the time, I tried not to hold it against her. I mean, people judge others based on who their friends are. That's just how school works. And honestly, I was guilty of doing that too.
Still, as we started to eat together during recess and spend time together, it felt like something changed. She got to know me beyond the surface, and I appreciated that. After so many lonely recesses, finally having someone to sit with, laugh with, and just share those little moments with—it mattered a lot to me.
Eventually, we even found a common enemy: Rachel. Something about having someone to stand against made us closer. And maybe that was when the guilt hit her—realizing what she had once been part of, and how wrong it was. From there, I slowly became friends with some other girls too: Ashley, Jesslin, and Joanna. These girls became my little circle—my safe space. We would sit together in class, share secrets, laugh over silly things, and even hang out after school. I started to smile more. I felt less like a ghost and more like a person again.
Ashley, in particular, was someone I really connected with. She even knew about my dream to write a book one day. I had been talking about it since Secondary 4, and she would always encourage me. For a while, I thought this book would be dedicated to them—Dhaniyah, Ashley, Jesslin, and Joanna. Because honestly, they made my life so much brighter. After the bullying I had gone through, they brought warmth, even joy. My Secondary 3 year felt like a whole new chapter—one where I could breathe, laugh, and actually look forward to school.
But as with most things in life, that peace didn't last.
When Secondary 4 started, Jaimie joined our clique. At first, things didn't seem different. We still hung out like usual, had lunch together, and laughed during lessons. But slowly, I started to notice something: Jaimie didn't like Joanna. And not in a subtle way—there was real tension. You could feel it in the way she rolled her eyes when Joanna spoke, or how she would exclude her from conversations.
Then, the group started to split. I could tell that Ashley and Jesslin were beginning to side with Jaimie. Dhaniyah, on the other hand, stood by Joanna. And me? I didn't know what to do. Deep down, I wanted to be neutral, but my fear got in the way. I remembered what it felt like to be left out, bullied, and abandoned. I was so scared of going through that again that I chose to side with the majority. So, I stood with Jaimie. Not because I hated Joanna, but because I was afraid of being alone again.
Here's the twisted part though—I still hung out with Joanna sometimes. We would eat together during recess like everything was okay. But it wasn't. It was awkward. There was a weird silence that hung between us—like we were both pretending nothing was wrong, while everything inside us screamed that it was.
Eventually, things exploded. I crossed a line—maybe I said too much, maybe I tried too hard to be accepted by the others—but it ended up causing a huge rift between Joanna and me. And to my surprise, Dhaniyah stood up for her. She defended Joanna, and in doing so, I felt like she stopped defending me.
That moment broke something in me. The girl who had once made me feel safe, who once sat beside me during the hardest times, now looked like a stranger. It was like she wasn't my best friend anymore. And the truth is, I missed her even before she left my life.
Apologizing would've helped. But I couldn't. I didn't know how. It's hard to say sorry when the guilt is eating you alive and you're not even sure you deserve forgiveness. So I stayed quiet. I told myself to stay calm. I tried to act like it didn't affect me.
Ashley sent me a long comforting paragraph, trying to make me feel better. And I clung to it. I convinced myself that it wasn't really my fault, that maybe this wasn't my issue anymore. But deep down, I knew that wasn't true.
Even after Secondary 5, the fallout of that drama followed me. Those friendships—the ones that once saved me from drowning—began to feel temporary. Like they were meant to give me a glimpse of happiness, but not meant to last.
And that's the thing about friendships in secondary school. Some of them are lifelines. Some of them are lessons. And some of them are both.