When My School Bully Messaged Me—And Why I Chose Not to Reply

Not every story needs a reply—some chapters close quietly, on our own terms.

I wasn’t expecting to be thrown back into the past when I opened Messenger a few days ago. But there it was—a message from someone I hadn’t seen or thought about in years.

Someone who had tormented me.

She wasn’t just a bully in the casual, schoolyard sense. She was relentless. She made it her mission to break me.

And she didn’t do it alone.

She had a group, a pack that followed her lead, and together, they made my life hell. I wasn’t just excluded, ignored, or whispered about. I was their target. Their entertainment. Their victim.

They didn’t just use words. They used their hands, their feet, their full weight against me.

I remember the times they shoved me into walls, into lockers, into the ground. The way they laughed when I hit the floor. The times they grabbed my bag and emptied its contents across the schoolyard, watching me scramble to pick up my books while they kicked them further away.

I remember the bruises, the scraped knees, the sting of a slap that landed so fast I barely saw it coming. I remember them cornering me, pushing me, pulling my hair so hard my scalp burned for hours afterward.

Once, she tripped me so violently on the stairs that I fell forward, hitting my chin so hard I thought I had broken something. The ringing in my ears drowned out their laughter, but I could still see their faces—grinning, delighted, proud of what they had done.

They never stopped. Not even when I cried. Not even when I begged.

And now, 20 years later, she had found me.

Her message sat there in my inbox, waiting. It started with the usual pleasantries—"Hey, how are you doing?"—as if we were old classmates catching up after a long time. Then came the apology.

She wrote about how terrible she had been, how much she regretted it, how sorry she was for the pain she had caused.

I stared at the words, and something inside me recoiled.

I wasn’t moved. I wasn’t relieved. I didn’t feel the closure she might have hoped to offer. Instead, her message cracked open a door I had long nailed shut.

Unpleasant memories flooded back—ones I had buried deep, hoping they would never resurface. I remembered the fear that sat in my chest every morning before school. The way my body tensed at the sound of her voice. The helplessness of knowing that no teacher, no adult, no one could truly protect me from her.

And now, just like that, she had decided it was time for reconciliation. That it was time to make amends.

But I don’t owe her that.

I don’t owe her my response. I don’t owe her forgiveness wrapped up in a neat little reply that says, It’s okay, I understand.

Because it’s not okay.

I spent years carrying the weight of what she did to me. It shaped parts of me I’m still trying to untangle. The self-doubt, the wounds that flare up in unexpected moments, the parts of me that still struggle to believe I am safe.

She had the privilege of forgetting. I didn’t.

So no, I won’t be replying. Not out of anger, not because I want to hold onto resentment, but because I get to decide what I let back into my life.

Some people will say I should respond. That she seems genuine. That people change. And maybe she has. But this isn’t about her growth. It’s about my peace.

And my peace means leaving that message unanswered.

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