Being invisible doesn't mean people can't see you.
It means they look straight through you.
In a family of seven, I somehow managed to be the only one without a job and the only one constantly reminded of it. My name is Freya Simons, the middle child in a house where noise was currency and achievement was oxygen.
If you didn't bring either to the table, you might as well not exist.
Every morning began the same way.
The clatter of plates.
The smell of burnt toast.
My parents' voices, floating through the house like judgment disguised as concern.
"Your brother just got promoted again," my mother would say, never looking at me.
"Your sister already owns a car at her age," my father would add, sipping his tea.
They never finished the sentence.
They didn't need to.
Why aren't you like them?
I tried.
God knows I tried.
I applied for jobs once.
Twice.
Five times.
Each rejection email chipped away at what little confidence I had left. Some companies never replied at all, which somehow hurt more. Silence felt like confirmation that I simply wasn't worth the effort.
At family gatherings, I became a shadow hovering at the edges of conversations.
My siblings laughed loudly, trading stories about offices, bosses, deadlines, and salaries. When someone finally turned to me and asked what I was doing, my answer always felt too small to say out loud.
"I'm still looking," I'd mumble.
And just like that, the conversation moved on without me.
That night, after another dinner filled with comparisons and sighs, I locked myself in my room.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks.
I wondered how someone could feel so alone in a house this full.
That's when my phone buzzed.
Hayley.
My best friend.
My anchor.
The only person who noticed when my voice got quieter.
Freya, are you free tomorrow?
I hesitated before replying.
Always. Why?
The next day, we met at our usual spot a small café tucked between two old buildings. The kind of place that smelled like fresh pastries and second chances.
Hayley studied me over her cup of coffee, her brows knitting together.
"You look exhausted," she said.
"I live with my family," I replied flatly.
She smiled, but her eyes softened. "I know that look. You're disappearing again."
I laughed weakly. "I don't think anyone would notice."
"I would," she said firmly.
Then she leaned forward, lowering her voice.
"Listen. There's this company Zinus."
I frowned. "Never heard of it."
"Exactly. It's growing fast. Very discreet. Very powerful. They're looking for a secretary to the CEO."
I nearly choked on my drink.
"Hayley, no. That's not for me."
She rolled her eyes. "Here we go."
"I don't have experience. I've been rejected five times already. I'm tired of hoping."
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
"Freya, you don't lack ability. You lack opportunity and confidence. This could be both."
"I don't even know the CEO."
"You don't need to," she said. "You just need to apply."
I shook my head. "I'll embarrass myself."
"You'll regret it more if you don't," she said softly. "Please. Just try."
There was something in her voice.
Belief.
The kind I hadn't felt in a long time.
That night, I stared at the application page for over an hour.
My finger hovered over the keyboard as every doubt screamed at me. Every past failure replayed itself like a warning.
Then I thought about the dinner table.
The silence.
The comparisons.
And for once
I chose myself.
I clicked Submit.
The next four days crawled by.
Every notification made my heart race. Every silence felt heavier than the last. By the third day, I had already convinced myself it was another dead end.
On the fourth day, while folding laundry in my room, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Sender.
My hands trembled as I opened the message.
Dear Ms. Simons,
We are pleased to inform you that your application to Zinus has been approved. Kindly check your email for your official appointment letter.
I read it once.
Twice.
Then I screamed.
I ran downstairs, breathless, holding my phone like proof of existence. My family looked up, startled.
"What's wrong with you?" my mother asked.
"I got the job," I said softly. "At Zinus."
There was a pause.
"Oh," my father said. "That's… nice."
Nice.
But for the first time, their reaction didn't matter.
Because for the first time in a long while
I mattered to myself.
Later that night, back in my room, I reread the email, smiling through tears.
This wasn't just a job.
It was the beginning.
And I had no idea how much my life was about to change.