Looking back, I wonder whether I was really there. It still feels so vivid, but like it happened to another. Sometimes I feel like crying, running to mum, or hiding under the covers but I remind myself that at least I wasn't hurt. It seems silly, but I feel guilty about only getting a few cuts. James had to be taken to hospital with glass in his eye; his clothes, hair and skin were covered in broken fragments that grazed his arms when the windshield shattered. I bet hes still in shock. He's only just got a proper nights sleep and I'm sure he's not exaggerating. The terrible impact, the shriek of grinding metal, the tortured confusion leave me cold at night and he still hears them too. All my friends say they're over it but I recall their stricken, terrified faces, even when the bus had finally stopped moving. They wont easily forget, you can see it in their eyes. My parents are getting me through this, though: my mum couldn't stop kissing and hugging, my dad took me horse riding and even my sister made me a card. Awful memories may seem real, but not as real as a family's love.