Chapter 1 — Invisible

Halle

The sharp scent of lemon cleaner lingered in the air as I sat at the kitchen table, the smooth surface cold against my elbows. Leona’s heels clicked deliberately across the tiled floor behind me, each sound like a warning. She didn’t need to say anything; the tension was enough to fill the room. I kept my head down, staring at the wood grain of the pencil I was supposed to be using for my math homework.

“You missed a spot on the counter,” Leona said, her voice calm, cutting. “If you can’t pay attention to details, how do you expect anyone to take you seriously?”

I hadn’t missed a spot, but I didn’t argue. What was the point? “I’ll clean it again,” I murmured, my gaze fixed on the table.

“Good.” The word was crisp, final. She was always like this—measuring every syllable, every glance, as though trying to carve me into something neat and presentable. Something I wasn’t. My stomach churned as I gripped my pencil, forcing my hands to stay steady even though the urge to snap back burned in my chest. I couldn’t give her the satisfaction.

The back door creaked open, and Ryan strolled in, his sports bag slung over one shoulder. The smell of sweat and grass followed him. He tossed the bag onto the floor, oblivious to the way it disrupted the pristine order Leona cultivated.

“Hey, Hal,” he said, grinning as he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl.

“Ryan.” Leona’s tone turned sharp, her disapproval evident as her gaze flicked to the bag on the floor. She reached down to adjust a dining chair slightly, as if the imbalance offended her. He ignored it, biting into the apple with a cheerful crunch.

“Mom, relax,” he said between bites. “It’s just a bag.”

Leona’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t press further. She never fought with Ryan the way she did with me. He had her charm, her easy confidence. I was the opposite—quiet, small, a shadow in a household that demanded brightness.

Ryan flopped into the chair across from me, nudging my notebook closer with his elbow. “Still on math? You’ve been at it for ages.”

I shrugged. “It’s… fine.” My voice was soft, almost drowned out by the sound of Leona rifling through papers in the drawer. I willed him to move the conversation along; I didn’t want Leona’s attention to shift back to me.

Ryan studied me for a moment, his smile fading slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Leona cleared her throat, and he turned his attention back to his apple. “Man, practice was brutal today. Coach had us running suicides for an hour. You’d think he was trying to kill us.”

“Keep the complaining outside,” Leona said coolly. “Not at the table.”

Ryan rolled his eyes and chomped down on the apple again. I tried to focus on the numbers in front of me, but they blurred into meaningless shapes. My mind wandered instead to my room, where my journal was tucked under my pillow, waiting like a secret I couldn’t share. My fingers tapped absently against my pencil, the rhythm grounding me against the weight of the room.

By the time Leona finally left the kitchen, retreating to her spotless office, I felt like I could breathe again. Ryan leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head.

“She’s in a mood tonight,” he said, his voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry.

“She’s always in a mood,” I replied quietly, surprised at my own boldness.

Ryan laughed softly, the sound warm, almost companionable. “True.” His gaze lingered on me for a moment, his grin tilting slightly. “You okay?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah,” I lied.

“Hang in there, Hal,” he said, pushing himself up from the table. His words were casual, almost dismissive, but he lingered at the doorway for a moment before disappearing upstairs. It was a small thing—an apple, a laugh, a fleeting moment of solidarity—but it stayed with me long after he left.

---

At school, invisibility was a skill I’d perfected. I slipped through the hallways with my head down, my hoodie pulled tight around me like armor. The cacophony of voices and slamming lockers was a constant background noise, but I moved through it unnoticed, a ghost blending into the chaos.

I reached my locker, spinning the combination dial slowly, deliberately. The metal door creaked as I opened it, and a folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor. My stomach sank.

It was another note.

I hesitated, my fingers trembling as I picked it up. The words scrawled across the paper were jagged, angry:

“Go back to hiding, freak.”

The words stung, even though I’d read countless variations of them before. My throat tightened, and for a brief moment, I considered leaving it on the floor, letting the cruel words lie where anyone could see them. But the weight of judgment around me was too much. I crumpled the note and shoved it deep into my pocket. The pencil in my hand snapped as I gripped it too tightly. The sound startled me, and I shoved the broken pieces into my bag, my fingers brushing against the leather cover of my journal. The familiar texture steadied me, reminding me of the wildflower pressed inside. I straightened my shoulders and walked away from the locker, keeping my steps steady even though my chest felt tight.

Math class was no better. I sat in the back corner, as usual, my notebook open but untouched. I pretended to take notes while the teacher droned on, but my attention drifted to the window. Outside, the trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves catching the sunlight. I thought of the woods—my quiet escape, the one place where I could breathe.

“Halle,” the teacher said, snapping me back to the present.

I looked up, startled.

“Could you solve this equation on the board?”

Every eye in the room turned to me. My face burned as I stood, clutching my pencil like a lifeline. The equation on the board seemed foreign, the numbers and symbols blurring together. My palms grew damp, and I could feel the faint snickers starting to ripple through the room.

I stared at the whiteboard, the edges of my vision narrowing. *What if I just ran out right now?* The thought flared, wild and fleeting, but my feet stayed rooted in place.

“I… don’t know,” I mumbled, barely audible.

The laughter grew louder, and I sank back into my seat, my heart pounding. The teacher sighed and moved on, but the humiliation lingered, settling over me like a heavy shadow. I stared at my desk, trying to ignore the whispered comments and muffled giggles around me.

At lunch, I found my usual spot—a quiet corner at the edge of the cafeteria. I picked at my food, my appetite gone, and tried to tune out the noise around me. Across the room, Ryan sat with his friends, laughing and joking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

I envied him sometimes—his ease, his ability to belong. The distance between us felt insurmountable, even though we lived under the same roof.

The cafeteria felt too loud, too suffocating, so I retreated to the library. The hushed quiet was a relief after the chaos of the hallways. I slipped into a seat by the window, pulling my journal from my bag.

The leather cover was worn, the edges frayed from years of use. I opened it to a blank page, my pen hovering uncertainly. I let the stillness of the library seep into me—the soft scratch of pages turning, the faint musty scent of old books. Slowly, the words came:

*I am the shadow behind the light,

The whisper lost in the roar.

Invisible, unremarkable, forgotten.*

I paused, staring at the page. The words felt raw, too honest. But I didn’t stop.

*But even shadows have weight,

And whispers can grow bold.

I wonder if one day, I’ll be seen—

Not as a shadow, but as me.*

The bell rang, jolting me from my thoughts. I closed the journal quickly, tucking it back into my bag. As I left the library, I felt a flicker of something I couldn’t quite name—hope, perhaps, or defiance. It was fragile, but it was there.

---

That evening, I sat in my room, the faint hum of the television drifting up from downstairs. My fingers traced the edge of my journal, the pressed wildflower inside a quiet reminder of my mother.

The memory came unbidden, vivid and bittersweet: the two of us in the woods, her laughter like music as we picked wildflowers together. She had called me her little poet, her dreamer, and told me to never stop writing.

I closed my eyes, holding the memory close. I could almost feel the warmth of the sun on my face, hear the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“Soon,” I whispered to myself. “Soon, I’ll leave this place. I’ll find my own light.”

The words felt like a promise, one I wasn’t sure I could keep. But for now, they were enough.