I've been invisible for as long as I can remember.
Not in a magical way—no fading edges or vanishing tricks. Just the kind of invisible where people look through you instead of at you. The kind where teachers pause before saying your name, and classmates forget you're even in the room.
But I remember him.
I was little when it happened. Small enough that fear felt bigger than my whole body.
The dog came out of nowhere—loud, fast, terrifying. I didn't think. I just ran. My feet burned, my chest hurt, and tears blurred everything.
Then suddenly—someone.
I grabbed a hand without asking.
"HEY—!" a boy yelled, nearly dropping the ice cream he was holding as I dragged him with me.
Now we were both running.
When he suddenly pulled me behind a tree, my back hit the rough bark and my breath came out in broken gasps. I remember thinking, I dragged him into this. I'm horrible.
But he stepped in front of me anyway.
His hands were shaking when he picked up a tree branch. He looked scared—really scared—but he still stood there, legs stiff, shoulders squared, like he was trying to be braver than he felt.
"Go away!" he shouted.
I peeked from behind the tree, heart hammering, watching him swing that branch like it was the only thing standing between us and the end of the world.
And then… the dog ran away.
The boy laughed, breathless and relieved. His ice cream lay ruined on the ground.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Because of me…"
He looked at me and smiled.
Not annoyed. Not upset.
Just… warm.
"It's okay," he said. "Ice cream isn't that important."
That smile burned itself into my memory.
Then he left.