Chapter 1: Mao Waguri

I’ve always tried to stay small. Not physically—I’m not that short—but in the way I move through the world. Quiet, careful, polite. The kind of person who hopes no one notices when she enters a room. It’s safer that way. People tend to like you more if you don’t make them look at you too long.

School is the same every day. I sit in the back of the classroom, where I’m least in the way. When someone bumps into me, I apologize immediately, even if it wasn’t my fault. I’ve learned that being polite is easier than explaining myself. Most of the time, people ignore me completely. Some whisper behind my back. I can feel it, the way eyes flick past me, curious but unwilling to linger. I tell myself it’s normal. Maybe it is.

I don’t have friends—not the kind who call you in the middle of the night or save seats for you in the cafeteria. I used to wonder if I was doing something wrong, but I’ve accepted it. Maybe I’m just not the kind of person people want as a friend. That’s okay. I don’t mind being alone. Alone is quiet. Alone is safe.

My family is…well, they’re nice enough, I guess. My mother worries about me a lot. She fusses over my long hair, makes sure I’m warm in winter, and always tells me to speak up more at school. “Mao, you’re so sweet, but people don’t notice you if you never say anything,” she says, always with a soft smile. I try, really I do, but it’s hard to just…exist in the world when it feels like everyone else is louder and braver than me.

My father is quieter. He works a lot, so we don’t see him during the day. When he comes home, he asks about school, about grades, about my life, but it’s all practical, never emotional. I guess he thinks asking questions is enough to show he cares. And maybe it is. I nod and smile and tell him what he wants to hear. My parents mean well. I just…wish I could feel like they really saw me.

I do have a younger brother, but he’s loud and messy and energetic in ways that make me dizzy. Sometimes he tries to talk to me, but I don’t know what to say. He thinks I’m boring, I think he’s too much. Still, I like watching him laugh. His happiness is loud enough to fill the quiet corners of our house, and sometimes that makes me smile without meaning to.

Most of my days are a string of quiet routines. Wake up. Dress in something soft and long that doesn’t draw attention. Eat breakfast quickly. Walk to school. Sit quietly. Return home. Study. Eat. Read. Sleep. Repeat.

I like my books. They’re safe, predictable, and comforting. I can live a hundred different lives in their pages without anyone noticing. I can be brave, loud, adventurous—everything I’m not in real life. Sometimes, I imagine myself as one of those heroes, saving someone, standing in the sun, being noticed without fear. But I always wake up from that daydream and see my pale lavender dress and my cardigan buttoned to the neck, and I know I’m still me.

I’ve learned that life isn’t about being noticed. Life is about moving carefully through it, apologizing when needed, and not making waves. It’s about being polite, being quiet, being small.

And honestly…that’s okay.

Because being small keeps me safe. Being quiet keeps me out of trouble. Being invisible keeps me from disappointment.

Still, sometimes, when the wind brushes past me on my way home, or when the evening sun spills gold over the rooftops, I feel a strange flicker in my chest—a wish that maybe, just maybe, someone would see me. Really see me. Not my manners, not my politeness, not my silence. Just…me.

For now, though, I settle for my books, my quiet room, and the soft rhythm of my days. They are mine, safe and gentle, and for now, that is enough.

But sometimes, in the deepest corner of my heart, I can’t help but wonder…what if there was someone who noticed the real me?