The alarm went off at six-fifteen. I didn't hit snooze. I didn't think about it. I just got up. The floor was cold under my bare feet, the same floor it had been every morning for the past fifteen years. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, dressed in the uniform that never fit right, and left my room before anyone noticed I existed.
Breakfast was toast and milk, cold, left on the counter. My parents were already at work. They didn't say good morning. They never said anything unless there was praise to be handed out. Sometimes I imagined their voices, polite and warm, but only in my head. Out loud, the house was quiet.
The bus arrived at seven-forty-five. I stood in the line, staring at the cracked concrete. Others laughed and shoved each other. I nodded at faces I recognized but didn't know. They called me "quiet" in passing, "topper" when exams came back. I smiled once. A teacher noticed. I kept it to a nod.
Roll call was routine. My name was read. "Here." A sound. Not a feeling. Present, but not alive. Teachers scribbled notes on their sheets. Parents would be told I was on time. They would be pleased. That was enough.
In class, I opened my notebook. My handwriting was neat. Precise. I answered questions correctly. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than being wrong. Being wrong drew attention. Attention drew questions. Questions drew words I didn't know how to speak.
Around me, people whispered, doodled, tapped phones. I watched. Occasionally, someone looked at me and laughed. I didn't know why. I didn't join in. I didn't try. Participation was optional. Silence was safer.
Lunchtime came. I sat at the edge of the bench, my tray untouched. Someone asked if I was okay. I nodded. They left. They forgot me the second they turned away. That was fine. I had learned to forget myself first.
The day passed. The lessons passed. I memorized the names of things, the dates of things, the formulas and definitions. I stored them carefully. They belonged somewhere, not to me.
By four, the bus took me home. The house was the same. Quiet. Empty of me. My parents returned later, tired, but never for me. Unless I had done something worthy of announcement. A perfect exam. A perfect assignment. A perfect silence. Then, and only then, would my existence be acknowledged.
I sat on the floor of my room. The clock ticked. I did homework. I did not think about feeling. Feeling had never done me any good. I wrote. I read. I existed. That was enough. That had to be enough.
Because no one else would notice.