Page 63 of In Shadows We Dance

The girl in the window is small, hunched, wrapped in dull colors. Faded blue jeans, an oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, shoulders curved in as if to shield herself. Her eyes areempty, dark circles beneath them.

She’s fading—trying so hard to vanish that she’s almost succeeded. Becoming the ghost girl Wren and his friends call her.

I look away, disgusted. The longer I stare, the more I hate her. This version of myself who shrinks, who hides, who fades so thoroughly that people forget she exists even while she’s standing in front of them.

But isn’t that what I’ve always done? What I’ve been taught to do? To be invisible? To be safe?

A couple walks past, their reflections joining mine briefly. The girl is wearing a bright red sweater, her hand looped around her boyfriend's arm as she tilts her head back, laughter brightening her eyes. They take up space without apology, existing fully in the moment. The ache in my chest grows bigger, harder to ignore.

When was the last time I laughed like that? Have I ever?

The library doors open with a soft hiss, and the familiar scent of books wraps around me. I’ve always loved how anonymous you can be among the shelves, how no one pays attention to another person lost in the stacks. It used to feel like freedom, this ability to exist without being seen. Now walking through the quiet aisles, that anonymity feels less like freedom and more like prison bars.

Two girls are sitting at a table, their heads bent close together as they share earbuds and giggle over something on a phone. The sound carries through the quiet space, earning them a stern look from the librarian. But they just grin at each other and laugh harder, unapologetic in their joy, in their friendship, in their right to exist.

They belong here. They belong to each other.

I’ve never had that. Never had someone to share secrets with, to laugh with, to simplybewith. The realization leaves me breathless.

Is this what I’ve given up in my quest to remain unseen?

The librarian doesn’t look up when I approach with Mom’s books. Her gaze stays on her computer screen, her fingers tapping absently at the keys. She doesn’t ask for my card. She never has, even though I’ve been coming here for years. To her, I’m justa faceless routine, a ghost that moves in and out of the library without leaving a trace.

“Thank you.” My voice is louder than usual.

She startles, her gaze snapping to mine. For a moment, she looks like she’s trying to place me, then she just nods and turns her attention back to the computer in front of her. It’s a small act of rebellion, insignificant, but it leaves my heart racing as I leave the library.

The grocery store is worse. Shoppers bump into me, without acknowledgement. The stock boy’s eyes skim right past me, uninterested, like I’m nothing more than another item on the shelf. I’m invisible again, and I hate it.

By the time I reach the produce section, my nerves are on edge. My hands shake as I reach for a bag of apples, nearly dropping it when someone pushes past me.

Get a grip, Ileana! You’re fine.

But I’mnotfine. Wren has changed me.

The shimmer of fabric catches my eye as I turn toward the checkout. A rack of dresses, bright reds and blues, their colors bold against the muted tones around them, is front and center. Before this week—before Wren—I would have turned away, sought out something in dull colors that would help me fade even further. But now, my fingers reach out, stroking over the silky material. The dress is soft, the color a deep, rich blue that reminds me of twilight, that fleeting moment before darkness swallows the world.

Would Wren notice if I wore something like this? Would his eyes darken, that intensity sparking behind them, the way they do when he watches me dance? Would he pull me closer, his hands on my waist, his breath hot against my neck as his eyes trace every inch of me?

The thought sends heat through me, setting off butterflies in my stomach, a twisting excitement that coils inside me, dangerous and impossible to ignore. My breath catches, my fingers trembling as I pull my hand away.

I don’t want him to notice me. I don’t want his gaze, his attention.

Do I?

By the time I get home, my mind is a storm of tangled thoughts. I help Mom put away the groceries, and I move through the motions on autopilot.

Has it always been like this? Have I always felt so … erased?

Even here, in my own home, I’m nothing but a shadow. Mom hums as she works in the kitchen, Dad sits in the living room with his paper. Andme? I exist in the spaces between, barely leaving a trace.

The sound of my name snaps me back, the can of soup nearly falling from my hand. I blink at my mom.

“You seem distracted.”

I want to ask her the questions Wren has forced me to consider.

Why did you teach me to be invisible?

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