The morning begins like every other.
I wake up before the sun, though not because I want to. My body simply refuses to sleep deeply anymore. The air in my small room is heavy, and the blanket clings to me like the weight of yesterday's failures. I get dressed in my uniform, brush my hair in silence, and avoid the mirror as much as possible.
When I finally step outside, the air is sharp and cool, and for a brief moment I imagine that today will feel different. Maybe the wind is trying to push me forward, telling me that something might change. But the thought fades as quickly as it comes.
By the time I arrive at school, the corridors are already filled with voices. The sound of conversations overlaps into a wave of laughter, secrets, complaints about homework, and gossip about things I'll never be part of. My footsteps make no sound against the floor. I blend in with the walls, or at least I try to.
I sit at my desk near the window, the same place I've always sat. It's not a bad seat. The sunlight reaches me, and sometimes I watch the trees outside when lessons get too heavy. But the seat also feels like a border, a reminder that I'm placed at the edge of everything.
Some of my classmates glance my way, but they never stop. They never wave. They never lean over to ask me how I am.
It's been a year since I first came here. A whole year, and not a single person has chosen me.
---
The lessons start. I write notes, though sometimes my mind drifts away. I imagine voices that could be talking to me. Jokes that could be shared. Questions that could be asked. But when I raise my head, there is nothing but the teacher's voice and the murmur of students whispering to one another when the teacher looks away.
I am not part of any of those whispers.
When the first break comes, I already know what is waiting for me.
In this school, there is a rule: during breaks, no one is allowed to stay in the classroom. Maybe the teachers think it's good for us—to get fresh air, to walk around, to mix with others. For me, it's the worst rule of all. Because at least in the classroom, I can pretend I'm busy. I can sit with my books and hide inside the excuse of studying.
But when the break bell rings, we all have to leave. And the moment I step into the courtyard, the truth becomes unavoidable.
Everyone has someone.
I walk slowly, pretending I'm searching for something. I let my eyes wander, pretending I'm not looking at the groups forming, the circles of laughter, the pairs of friends leaning close to share secrets. But inside, I am searching for one thing only—someone like me. Someone standing alone.
If I could find even one other person, I could breathe easier. I wouldn't be the only shadow in a world full of light.
But no.
There is no one.
There never is.
---
So I choose a corner of the courtyard, near the fence where no one usually stands. I sit there, trying to shrink myself small enough that maybe nobody will notice.
I pull out my notebook. It's not for schoolwork this time. It's for drawing.
Drawing is the only way I can hold myself together during breaks. My lines are clumsy, uneven, but at least they belong to me. At least when I draw, the world is quiet, and I can create something that doesn't laugh at me or walk away.
But as soon as I move my pencil, I feel it. The weight of invisible eyes.
It's not real—I know it's not—but it feels real. Like every student in the courtyard has turned their head to watch me. To judge me. To wonder why I'm sitting alone, scratching lines into paper while they live the life I can't reach.
My hands begin to shake. I erase more than I draw. The sound of laughter nearby makes me flinch. I tell myself they're not laughing at me, but the thought still burns into my chest.
I want to disappear.
So instead of drawing, I start imagining.
I imagine that someone walks up to me. Maybe a girl with kind eyes. Maybe a boy who noticed me sitting here every day and finally decided to say hello. I imagine their voice breaking through the silence, soft and gentle: "Hey, mind if I sit with you?"
In my mind, I lift my head and smile. I say yes. We start talking. Slowly, the ice breaks. Slowly, I belong.
But the moment lasts only in my imagination.
Because I know it won't happen.
It hasn't happened for a whole year. And if no one has spoken to me in that time, why would they start now?
People don't suddenly notice the invisible.
---
When the bell rings to end the break, relief washes over me. Not because I'm excited to return to class—no, it's because I no longer have to stand there in the open, reminding myself that I am the only one.
Back at my desk, I bury myself in my books again. The lessons pass. Words fill the air. I copy them down, though sometimes I can't even read my own handwriting afterward. My mind is elsewhere—caught between shame and longing, between silence and the faint hope that maybe tomorrow will feel different.
Sometimes, one of my "friends" will wave at me from across the room, or ask me to lend them a pen. And in those tiny moments, I try to convince myself that I am not completely alone. That there is still a thin string tying me to the rest of the world.
But the truth is always louder in my chest.
The truth is that I am on my own.
When the final bell rings, I leave as quietly as I came. The halls echo with goodbyes, plans for the evening, promises to meet at cafés or study together. I walk past all of it, unnoticed. My footsteps carry me home, where another kind of silence waits.
And I tell myself the same thing I told myself yesterday.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe tomorrow someone will see me.
Maybe tomorrow someone will sit with me.
But deep down, I already know the answer.