I’ve known Jenny since third grade. We sat across from each other in homeroom, and she passed me a note once with a doodle of a heart. I didn’t think much of it then. But now, years later, I see the pattern—how she gives pieces of herself to people who don’t notice, how she laughs when someone cancels plans, how she says 'I’m fine' like it’s a prayer.

Today, she’s sitting on the library steps, staring at her phone. Another unanswered text. I sit beside her, and for once, she doesn’t force a smile.

'I don’t want to be invisible anymore,' she says, voice barely above a whisper.

I look at her. 'You’re not. You’ve never been.'

She turns to me, eyes glistening. 'Then why does it feel like I am?'

A beat. The wind carries a crumpled love letter from her notebook. I pick it up, read the last line: 'Maybe next time, you’ll stay.'

I hand it back. 'What if you stopped waiting for next time?'

She swallows hard. 'I don’t know how.'

'Let’s find out,' I say.

She looks at me—really looks—and for the first time, I see it: not hope, but the beginning of courage.