Notes in the quiet 🫥😶‍🌫️

High school hallways are supposed to be loud- laughing, sneakers squeaking, music spilling from someone's phone. For me, it's always....blurred. Like I'm watching life on mute while everyone else has surround sound. I keep my head down, hugging my notebook like it's my only friend. And maybe it is. It's where I keep words I can't say out loud- poems no one reads. Well, no one except maybe God, if He really listens to people like me. "Move!", a basketball player shouts, brushing past so fast my notebook almost falls. "Sorry", I mumble, but he's already gone, laughing with his crew. They don't even look back. My plan, as usual, is simple: • Avoid eye contact • Avoid talking • Survive ********************* "Amara!" The voice breaks my autopilot. I glance up and see Mrs. Ayo standing by the literature room, her yellow scarf bright against the dull gray lockers. She's one of the teachers who smiles too much, like she knows a joke the rest of the world doesn't. "Come", she says, waving me closer. I consider pretending I didn't hear but she's already walking towards me, eyes full of that determination teachers have when they've decided you're worth "saving". "Have you written something for the poetry showcase?", she asks. I freeze. "Uh........ I'm not-" Her brow arches like she's challenging me to finish that sentence. "Don't tell me you don't have anything. You always write during study hall." My fingers tighten around my notebook. "Yeah, but it's not......good enough". She steps closer, lowering her voice like she's letting me in on a secret. "Amara, your words matter. You matter. Stop hiding". I swallow, not knowing what to say. So I nod, because it's easier than arguing with someone who believes in you more than you believe in yourself. ************************ Later, Home The apartment smells like fried plantain and exhaustion. "Homework done?", Mom calls from the kitchen, her voice already worn thin. "Yeah". It's not. She doesn't check. She's rushing, her apron flapping as she grabs her bag. "I'll be home late. Don't stay up too long, okay?" "Okay." When the door clicks shut, silence drops like a blanket- too heavy, too thick. I stare at my notebook, at the poem I wrote at 3 am when sleep wouldn't come. It's about being invisible. About what it feels like to exist in the same room as everyone else and still feel like air. I should keep it private. But something Mrs Ayo said echoes in my head: You matter. Stop hiding. Before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers type the poem into the online portal and hit "Submit". One click. One heartbeat. SUBMITTED. Regret hits immediately. What did I just do? What if they laugh? What if they- I slam the laptop shut like it's going to bite me and curl up on my bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the world to end. **************************** Next morning, Locker Row School looks the same, but I feel different- like everyone somehow knows I submitted that poem and is secretly laughing. I fumble with my locker and something catches my eye: an envelope, in the hallway- just students rushing, talking, scrolling, laughing. No one looking at me. For the first time in a long time, I feel........noticed.