By Emma Do
Looking back at my Sixth Form, it was one of a kind. I don’t think I will ever fully grow up from the version I left in Fleetwood. Fleetwood was like a summer dream. It was vivid, full of life, like the air hot on your skin, or the hydrangeas in their full bloom, pastel pink and blue by the school theatre. The sunsets were bright orange, coral, dark purple, and sapphire blue; occasionally brimmed with laughter, others somewhat melancholy. I remembered days when I took my houseparents’ dogs out for a long stroll along the sea wall, felt the salty wind threading through my hair, the rain soaking up my jacket. But the ocean smell was rich–a remedy spreading in my lungs. Moments like that made me feel conscious, out of a trance, like I was here, by the water, and that was enough.
