Lost in plain sight
The Florida sky hung low and bruised—an unnatural, swollen purple that bled into the horizon like an open wound. July's heat pressed heavy against my skin, but inside me, everything felt frozen, brittle, breaking.
Senior year was over. Exams done. Goodbyes half-hearted, like whispers lost in a storm. Yearbooks were scrawled with signatures that never reached me—words meant for someone else, a ghost version of myself. Dad said I should be happy. Graduating was supposed to be a celebration. But my chest was a hollow cavern where joy refused to echo.
High school had never been a dream. It was a fragile bubble, thin and fragile enough to keep the sharp edges of the world from cutting too deep. Now that bubble was bursting, and I was exposed, raw to a future I didn't want.
And worst of all was the silence I'd never escape.
I could no longer see the boy who held my heart. Hear his rich voice that sounds like velvet soaked in honey. He never knew I watched, waited, worshiped from a distance.
This is tragic, so no— I don't think I'm thrilled to be graduating.
***
"Good morning princess!." My father's voice floated from the doorway, rich with excitement. Harry O'Sullivan—a merry name in my opinion for a merry man. He had a lopsided grin on his pale white face, the same one he wore whenever when he brought home surprises or dragged me to bad rom-coms. He had always been like that—my dad, always trying to put a smile on every face. Still I must admit that there were times that I found him— overbearing.
"Come right in Dad!." I rolled my eyes, pulling my thick duvet over my head. "You ever heard of knocking?". My voice came out mumbled.
"Get up already, it's the last day of senior year." He dragged his words, tugging the duvet gently. "You should be excited." He pointed out.
There was some sense in his words, I knew he was trying to help. I just wasn't ready to pretend yet.
"Okay dad." My voice came out quietly, barely above a whisper but I knew he heard me because he finally let me be.
I dragged my weak limbs to the bathroom, exhausted from a night laid wide awake, anxious about today. I played a thousand and twelve versions of the What if's of today —yet, nothing was certain. The day still remained a mystery the only difference was how drained I felt.
Anxiety and fear siblings I birthed and nurtured—insidious and potent.
After a quick shower, I slipped into my usual amour; loose pants and an over sized T-shirt. My go-to amour.
Comfortable. Safe. Just like my name—Lily O'Sullivan. Plain, forgettable.
Reluctantly, I grabbed a hair tie from my dresser and pulled my long wavy brown hair into a ponytail. I could now see myself clearly— my big emerald eyes, full pink lips that has been alleged a hundred times to be fake, a sharp pointed noise and red big bunny ears that had seen better weather conditions.
The longer I stared at my reflection the more I began to see bits of myself more clearly—the dark circles around my eyes, the faint bruises on my neck. This meant that other people could see too.
My breath caught.
Instantly, I yanked the hair ties off, allowing the thick and untamed beauty flow down my back, framing my face. I love my hair, it was one of the few things I like about myself— it's ability to keep me hidden.
Just like my outfit hides my curvy body. A curvy body I have loathed all my life, for all the misfortunes it caused me, the hungry eyes and hands that can't decode no. A curvy body, another reason why I can never be his. The girls usually glued to his side
were all angles and air. Supermodels in training.
Maybe if I was skinny, he would see me. Maybe then I'd be enough.
A curvy body inherited from my mum— a woman carefully hand crafted by the divine, exceptionally beautiful in his image. She always praised my beauty, perhaps it was coming from the voice of a loving mother. None of such beauty I have ever seen myself, not when no one else wanted me, not even as a friend, except for Tiffany Morgan.
That, in itself, felt like proof.
A tear escaped, surprising me. I hadn't realized I was crying until it traced a cold path down my cheek. Memories of Mom, of our short lived moments together, flooded back. Those evenings we would sit together in the dark balcony, silently overlooking the city. Many words were not shared but still we were content.
The times I would accompany her to any place or remain at home with her, even when every other person was out. People called me her purse and I never argued with them, neither was I ashamed.
It has been three years since she passed, yet it still felt like this morning I'd heard the mortifying news. Stage four cancer. It was too late. If only we'd known sooner, she'd still be here.
Sometimes I wonder if the rest of us were left in the dark while she knew all along about her condition. That was like her—strong, selfless, silent in pain.
At first, I'd been furious at her, thinking she had not fought hard enough to stay. Now, maybe I understood, maybe she'd had enough of this world. But it still hurt so much, even after all this time. I could not move on, and when I caught myself happy, even for a moment, guilt twisted in my gut. I wasn't supposed to be happy when she wasn't here.
My quiet sobs escalated into desperate, hysterical wails. Deep ugly sobs that made my chest ache. All the pain, all the guilt from missing her so much... it surged like a wave.
The door creaked open, and Dad was there. I launched myself into his arms, clinging to him. "Shh, it's okay, my princess. Everything will be fine." He murmured.
Eventually, the sobs subsided.
"Do you think you can still make it to school today?" He asked softly.
"It's the last day, Dad. I can't just stay home." I forced a weak chuckle, trying to lighten the mood, though my throat felt dry.
"I'll take you to school." He said pausing at the door. " I'll be waiting in the car."
Tiffany usually picked me up, but lately, I wasn't so sure about anything with her. She'd become distant, especially since she began spending all her time with Sasha, a girl she'd met at a party—someone I hadn't even known existed until a few weeks ago.
When I first confronted Tiffany, she'd dismissed it. "Not really close, can't even be called friends." I'd let it go. But then I found countless pictures of them on Sasha's Instagram, holding each other and smiling widely like they shared an inside joke . Tiffany had blocked me, of course, so I wouldn't see her posts.
Yes, I stalked Sasha. I needed to know; I needed some peace. When I'd pressed Tiffany again about the pictures, she'd just brushed it off. Sasha was grieving her dead sister, who looked just like her, Tiffany explained. That's why she had to "put up with Sasha for a while." But the way she looked at Sasha in those pictures…the excuses she made to never hang out with me, made me wonder if I was the one being phased out.
Call me crazy, or a narcissist, like Tiffany had once said. But I don't want to share my best friend with anyone. Not that she couldn't have other friends, but Tiffany was my only friend. I loved her dearly and didn't want anything to jeopardize our relationship.
***
The car ride was quiet, except for the hum of the engine and occasional sigh from the driver's seat.
"You skipped breakfast again," He said, a familiar complaint. "I wonder if you'll eat at all when you go off to college."
I didn't reply. It wasn't like I had a choice. Tiffany once said skipping breakfast might help me loose weight. Then maybe people would stop whispering and give in me weird glances when I walked by. Maybe I'd blend in.
He didn't push and I was grateful for that.
When we pulled up to Bricks High. Dad gave me a hopeful smile. "I'll be here after, if you want a ride?. Try to have fun okay?."
I nodded and stepped out offering a small forced smile. I made no move toward the school. I just stood there, watching Dad drive away, his hand waving frantically until his car disappeared from sight.
Bricks High stood tall and worn, it's old brick walls and peeling blue paint declaring its age to anyone who cared. I walked reluctantly into the noisy hallway, squeezing through happy students and floating balloons taped to lockers. Everyone seemed excited.
Except but me.
After successfully navigating the crowded hall to my locker without tripping—a small miracle, I checked my classes and pulled out my books.
"Hey, pumpkin!." Tiffany's chirpy voice rang out.
"Hi". My voice quieter than I meant.
"How are you doing this fine morning?. Are you excited for today? I'm sure you are, who wouldn't be?." Tiffany blabbered, her long blonde hair swaying, her blue eyes shining brighter with every word. She wore a pink mini-skirt that barely covered her, a tight black top straining over her perky chest, a black jacket, and boots. She always had head turning wherever she went. She was sexy, and she knew it. We weren't allowed to dress like that for school, but Tiffany was, well, Tiffany.
"Are you listening to me?, You're always zoning out, never paying attention." Tiffany whined, then her eyes dropped to my outfit. "What are you wearing?. Didn't you get my text last night?." She asked with a slightly panicked tone and a look that resembled disgust. It passed quickly before I could register it. Maybe I was wrong.
"I didn't get your text." I lied, my voice flat.
"We're going to the bar after the test to celebrate. You seriously can't show up like that. No wonder people talk about you." Her tone was casual, but her words cut deep. I just nodded, saying nothing. Not like I could. Tiffany was right. Maybe I was the problem. I just stood there, watching her quietly as she gave me one last irritated look and walked off, probably to her first class.
The bell rang, and I practically ran to class, desperate not to be late for the test. Mr. Frederick would never let me hear the end of it. He was strict.
I slid into a seat with a minute to spare, just as Mr. Frederick walked in with the last few students. The test began and the rest of the day blurred into a haze.
***
I finished my test with shaky hands and wandered into the hallway, hoping to catch Tiffany. Maybe apologize. Maybe fix... something.
I was so deep in rehearsing my apology that the world blurred into a mess of imagined dialogue—until my foot caught. A choked groan escaped my lips as I reached out blindly, desperate to steady myself against the nearest solid object.
Walls didn't wear cologne and neither did they wear clothes but I'm pretty sure I was touching one.
Looking up, I froze. Space, time, my entire existence dissolved. The feeling of his body beneath my hand made me question every biology test I'd ever taken. How could a human feel so much like a rock?
Still lost in a daze, time stretched, slowing specifically for me, as if it knew I needed to savor this moment.
Standing in front of me was Alexander Dankworth with gray eyes wide with surprise and something dangerously close to amusement. As always, he looked like he had stepped straight out of a magazine—wavy dark hair, perfectly messy as if he'd just run his hand through it. Sculpted like a dream I'd been chasing for years.
Then he smiled. At me?, His smile was directed to me?. No. That couldn't be right.
But the corners of his lips curved up—gentle, effortless, direct. My heart skipped eight beats at once. They might as well call an ambulance.