Natasha aka Nats, my Gen Z neighbour, strode through my door. She was fuming, she was flustered, she was wired, she had a vibe that wasn’t individual but had a collective vibe, like she’d been through something quite severe, but she was definitely energised. Her usual aggressive nature was on overdrive, but for once it didn’t seem to stem from a generational apathy, but from real agitation. She was alive. It didn’t need me to get her started. It was obvious that she had been to the protests, she had marched, she had mouthed off, she had memed, and she had megaphoned.

Her rant had a back story. One of her friends had hung herself, “The exhaustion, she felt bruh, and the futility of a re-exam, the fear, the claustrophobia, the closeting up for three years, maybe four, the study study study relentlessness, the dream that she needed to be a doctor, to help people, the aim was to be a cardiac surgeon, a woman cardiac surgeon, which is very rare. And then, that damn paper leak. The system is so messed up. Bruh, it seems like a cliche, to pick herself up again, her parents had sacrificed so much,” she paused for breath.