I step out of the elevator of my life and instantly, the humidity coats my skin with mosquitoes and gnats, but I can’t turn back because she’s approaching.

The infamous Felicity stands before me with her spike-studded denim jacket and high-topped Doc Martens.

I’m in her line of fire, prey for her to play with, and like a light switch, my fear ramps up, squeals like a loose fanbelt, an obnoxious middle school fire alarm.

She approaches with her inner-city swagger and smirk until our shoe’s toes are touching and demands something I never saw coming, the most humiliating demand a twelve-year-old girl could ever receive.

‘Take off your glasses.’

I turn toward the elevator to beg for another stop, but it just sits there, doors closed, with a heaving indifference and no explanation for why it dropped me off here.

When I turn to face my bully again, something new clicks into place in my mind, the rest of that memory, that moment I long ago tucked away, and without warning, I blurt out a single, fate-sealing response I somehow forgot I was brave enough to say that day.

‘No.’

The one-syllable response should’ve gotten me pummeled into the asphalt of that path to school under normal circumstances, but instead, this menacing girl twice my size looked around as if searching for a punchline from trees surrounding us and when none came, she turned back to me, looked me up and down, laughed and patted me on the back, then walked with me to our middle school.

The elevator never did explain itself, but I think I understand why it wanted me to relive that moment, to remind me of an inner strength I sometimes forget I have.