33. Breaking Invisible

CHAPTER 33

Breaking Invisible

ILEANA

Saturday stretches out before me like a blank canvas, empty and waiting. No school means no Wren, and while the thought should fill me with relief, it doesn’t. Restlessness churns beneath my skin, like an itch I can’t reach, a constant buzz that refuses to be quiet.

In the kitchen, my dad hands me a grocery list. Mom asks me to pick up some books from the library. I nod along with their voices, pretending this is just another ordinary day. Pretending that the past week hasn’t changed me in ways I don’t think I can ever come back from.

Normal. Safe. That’s what this is.

After breakfast, I change into jeans, a T-shirt, and my hoodie. I pull the hood up to cover my head. Sneakers on, I head out, letting the door click shut behind me.

The walk downtown feels different today. My eyes dart around, scanning the faces of strangers, searching for something, or someone , I hope not to find. I keep to the busier streets, avoiding the shortcuts I usually take. My senses feel heightened, every sound amplified, every movement demanding my focus. Like how the coffee shop window catches my reflection, showing a girl trying too hard to disappear. I pause, staring at myself.

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 are empty, 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 simply be with. 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 just a 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’m not fine. 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. And me ? 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?

Why can’t I exist like other people do?

Why do I have to hide?

Why can’t I live?

But the words get stuck in my throat. I force myself to smile. “I’m just tired.”

The afternoon drags on, each minute stretching into the next, each second an echo of the emptiness around me. I try to focus on a book, but find myself staring into space. Homework sits unfinished. I have nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to talk to.

The distance I’ve kept from the world isn’t a shield. It’s a cage, and I’m trapped inside it, isolated and empty.

And beneath it all is a truth I don’t want to acknowledge.

I miss him.

The thought comes unbidden, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force it away. But it’s there, stubborn and relentless.

I miss him.

I hate how much I crave it—how much I crave him . The danger, the intensity, the way he makes me feel like I'm his, like I'm meant to be his .

Night falls too quickly, shadows creeping across my room. I leave my bedroom long enough to have dinner, to clean up afterward, to take a shower. My body goes through the motions while my mind is stuck on him. I double-check the window locks, draw the curtains tight, and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

But it’s not just Wren. It’s everything.

I can’t stop thinking about that couple on the street, about the bright dresses I’ll never dare to buy, about what they might have done once they got home. The way her laughter might have turned into soft gasps, the way they might have tangled together, their bodies moving in rhythm, lost in each other. I think about all the ways I’ve made myself small, invisible, denying myself that kind of connection.

About how Wren strips those layers away, piece by piece, with just a look—how his eyes seem to reach inside me, peeling back everything I use to protect myself, leaving me defenseless. The hunger in his gaze, the way it promises danger and ecstasy, makes my pulse race, my body tighten in anticipation.

Maybe it wasn’t the orange juice that caught his attention. Maybe he saw how desperately I tried not to be seen. Or maybe … maybe he saw something in me. Something that I’ve never let myself see. A spark of hope, a longing to be free of these walls I’ve built. I want it. I want to feel alive, to be touched, to be wanted. And yet, I’m scared of what it means, scared of what I might lose if I step into the light. But the need is there, growing, twisting inside me, impossible to ignore.

Sleep is restless, broken by flashes of dreams. Dark eyes locked on mine, hands gripping my wrists, holding me down, hot breath against my skin. His face, the intensity in his eyes as he leans closer, the weight of his body pressing against mine. A shiver runs through me, a mix of fear and desire that makes me press my thighs together.

His hands explore, fingers trailing down my sides, igniting a desperate, aching need. The dizzying thrill of being truly seen, of being wanted, consumes me. My heart hammers against my ribs, each heartbeat a reminder that I'm alive, that I'm here, that I crave more than just to exist.

I want to be touched, claimed. I want to lose myself in the heat of him.

A noise wakes me. The prickle of awareness skates over my skin, and my eyes snap open.

A shadow moves.

“Hello, pretty Ballerina. Did you miss me?”