Hi. It was 2022. I was a hormonal, undiagnosed-depressive teen. I had kept a diary for about fourteen months – and was sixteen – well into it, just tickling the surface of my GCSEs. For the few adults reading this who have socks older than me, it was the year you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing the opening drumbeat to Running Up That Hill. I was sat in the dining bay, and I was thinking about some straight guy I had a crush on. Another straight guy, who I had liked the previous year – but now was slowly becoming insufferable, said: ‘Oi – you seen Heartstopper ?’ I said, ‘No.’ He smiled, Mr. Insufferable did, so the dot-to-dot spots on his face went missing in the creases of his cheeks. ‘I would’ve thought you had, considering...’ Tired of the (insert name of animal and name of brown stuff), I said, ‘Considering what, Sufferable?’ ‘You’re gay.’ I just left it. In hindsight, I should have given him a round of b... applause, and wiped the floor with him. But hey-ho (as...