I was still in my towel after my shower as I stood on the small IKEA stepladder to reach around in the top of the wardrobe. I could just about see the turquoise box, standing on my tiptoes to grasp at the nothingness in front of it before I could lean far enough to hook my finger under the lid and drag it to the edge of the shelf. My memory box.

I sat on the bed and flicked it open. I hadn’t added anything to it for years. From the age of nine I was obsessive about recording my own history, collecting fragments of memories like a magpie: cinema ticket stubs, photos taken with my pink Polaroid camera – the one that everyone at school had. I hadn’t looked through it in ages and in an instant, I was reminded why. Sometimes it was just too painful. There was an innocence to who I was when I was younger, a hopeful way of seeing the world that made me sad about how I saw the world now.

After my last summer at Yak Yak everything changed. I came home from drama camp as full of life and energy as I ever had been, but it was that school year that shifted who I thought I was allowed to be in the world, and I never went back. I started playing by the rules, started self-monitoring how I showed up in my life so as not to ruffle any feathers. I found a photo of us all stood on the stage of Bugsy Malone, about one hundred kids, me in the front row proudly sporting a leotard and feather boa, delighted as I’ve ever been. I scanned the faces for Patrick and found him at the back, not looking to camera. In fact, in a way, it almost looked as though he was staring in my direction.

I smoothed the photo out on the bedroom floor, letting myself remember, and decided to prop it in the corner of the mirror on the vanity, next to a picture of Freddie and me in a photo booth at our cousin’s thirtieth, both in big glasses and moustaches. Why couldn’t I be that carefree all the time? The photos on the mirror reflected the woman I wanted to be more than my actual reflection.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by Mum appearing at the doorway.

‘Jesus,’ I said, jumping out of my skin. ‘Mum. You scared me.’ I had a faraway thought about asking Adzo to suggest they think about leaving. This was too much, now. I was going to be okay. I was. They could go.

‘It’s Fernanda,’ she said, holding out her mobile. ‘I think you should take this, Annie. Come on.’