THE GLUCOSE

Rosalind clutched her cheek, not crying immediately, just stepping back once, her eyes widening with hurt — slow enough for every watching eye to register the moment fully.

“I just wanted things to be fair,” she said, voice trembling, “why would you hit me…”

That night, on “Loxley Confessions” — the anonymous social media page where students posted gossip, secret crushes, or the occasional bit of internal drama — a long post appeared:

“There’s a Sixth Form girl who thinks her illness makes her exempt from the school’s general rules, and another girl who just gently reminded her about fairness got slapped across the face right on the field. Honestly can’t wrap my head around this.”

No name mentioned, but at a boarding school with only a few hundred students, everyone knew exactly who it meant.

Comments piled up within the hour: “typical sick princess act”, “using illness as an excuse for thuggish behaviour”, “feel so bad for Rosalind, being that kind and getting treated like that”, “the Ashworths are loaded, guess she’s used to getting spoiled”.

Less than half an hour later, another anonymous post appeared right underneath, attaching three old photos of me playing in an inter-school netball friendly back in Year Eleven, and another of me taking part in last spring’s charity fun run.

“Wait but looking at these photos she seems perfectly fine playing sport, played a whole netball match without fainting, and now she can’t handle a couple of laps of a jog? Makes you wonder if she’s faking the illness to get special treatment.”

The comments beneath split into camps immediately, but the majority leaned toward suspecting me: “exactly, she looks fine playing sport in these”, “guess she only ‘gets sick’ when it’s convenient”, “genuinely feel for Rosalind, accused of bullying while the ‘victim’ puts on this good an act”.

None of them knew that Addison’s doesn’t present the same way every single day — some days my body still produces just enough residual cortisol for me to get through a paced, gentle netball match, and some days all it takes is an over-exerted run, a skipped breakfast, or simply prolonged stress, and my body can collapse within minutes.

I read every line of comments in the dark of our dorm room, the phone’s light falling across Amelia’s face beside me, neither of us saying anything for a long while.

“I’m going up there to set the record straight,” Amelia finally spoke, her voice thick with anger.

“I can tell them exactly what I saw, I was standing right next to you!”

“Don’t,” I said, setting the phone down, forcing my voice to stay calm even as my hand still trembled with exhaustion.

“Speaking up now will only make people think I’m making excuses, it’ll only get messier.”

“So we just let people trash you like this?”

“Not let it slide,” I looked Amelia straight in the eye.

“Rosalind likes to perform, so let her keep performing. The longer she performs, the more cracks will show. Remember what happened with Poppy and the inhaler? This isn’t the first time she’s done something like this. There will be a next time.”

“And if there isn’t a next time?” Amelia’s voice caught, unable to finish the thought.

“What if…”

“There will be,” I said, my voice steadier than I actually felt in that moment.

“Someone who likes performing fairness in front of a crowd like that doesn’t stop at once. I just need to be ready for it.”