Maybe in Another life

Do you ever wonder how it feels to disappear?

Not the kind of vanishing act where people search for you, calling your name, hoping you'll come back, but the quieter kind, where no one even notices you're gone. I often wonder about that, scribbling the thought in the margins of my diary as if by writing it, I can make the words less real. My name is Deyanira, but no one calls me that. Not really. The world shortened me to "Nira" long ago, just as it shortened everything else about me. 

I sat on the edge of my bed, the dim light of my desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. The walls, bare save for peeling paint and a single faded poster, seemed to press inward, crowding me. I stared at the open page of my diary, pen poised over the paper. The words refused to come. 

This wasn't unusual. 

There were so many things I wanted to say but never could. I wrote them down instead, in letters no one would ever read. Words meant for someone who would never know they existed. 

Mihai.

Even his name felt like a secret I wasn't allowed to keep. 

I let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the creaky frame of my bed. The house was quiet, unnervingly so. Mom must've passed out on the couch again. The sharp smell of cigarettes and cheap vodka wafted up from downstairs, mingling with the faint mildew scent of the house itself. Dad? Probably gone. He always was. If he wasn't working, he was at the bar. If he wasn't at the bar, he was God-knows-where. 

I still remember the last time he spoke to me. 

A chill crept into my bones as I pulled the threadbare blanket tighter around my shoulders. Loneliness had a way of seeping into everything, even the air. I picked up my pen again, forcing myself to write. 

*"Dear Diary,"* 
*"He smiled at me today. Not because he saw me-he never sees me-but because he's like that. Kind. Warm. Beautiful. Mihai could smile at a brick wall, and it would feel like the sun shining after weeks of rain."* 

I paused, chewing on the end of my pen. My chest ached-not from my thoughts but from the familiar tightness I'd started feeling lately. A cough bubbled in my throat, and I stifled it with my fist. The sound echoed in the silence, harsh and raw. 

When I pulled my hand away, a tiny white petal clung to my palm, its edges soft and delicate, like it didn't belong in this world at all. 

For a moment, I just stared at it. 

Then I laughed. A bitter, hollow sound that made the room feel colder than it already was. "Of course," I murmured to no one. "Of course, this is happening to me." 

The petal trembled in the faint draft from the cracked window. I placed it carefully on my nightstand, next to the stack of unfinished sketches and old notebooks. It was stupid, but I didn't want to throw it away. It felt too much like throwing away a part of myself. 

I closed my diary and pushed it aside. There were no words left tonight, only the echo of a cough and the phantom of a smile that wasn't even mine to keep. 

---

The next morning was the same as every other. 

I slipped out of the house before my parents stirred, pulling on my hoodie and slinging my bag over my shoulder. The air outside was crisp, the kind of cold that bit at your skin and left your breath hanging in the air. I liked it. It made me feel alive in a way I rarely did. 

The walk to school was uneventful. The streets were empty, save for a few cars and the occasional jogger. By the time I reached the building, the hallways were already buzzing with life. Groups of friends laughed and chatted, their voices blending into a cacophony of sound. 

I kept my head down, slipping through the crowd like a ghost. 

No one noticed me. 

No one ever did. 

Except him. 

"Mornin', Nira." 

His voice was warm, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. 

I froze, my heart skipping a beat as I looked up. Mihai stood in front of me, his hazel eyes bright and his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. He wasn't smiling-not this time-but his expression was soft, curious. 

"Uh, morning," I managed to mumble, clutching the strap of my bag like a lifeline. 

He nodded, then stepped aside to let me pass. I didn't. I couldn't. 

This was Mihai. The boy who had been my first and only friend in elementary school. The boy who had made me believe, for one fleeting moment, that I wasn't invisible. 

But that was years ago. 

He didn't remember me now. I was sure of it. 

I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep walking. My legs felt like lead, but I made it to my locker without collapsing. My hands trembled as I spun the combination lock, the numbers blurring together. 

He spoke to me. 

Why did he speak to me? 

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Classes came and went, the monotony of lectures and notes a welcome distraction from the storm in my head. Every so often, I glanced at him-Mihai, sitting with his friends, laughing at something I couldn't hear. 

He was everything I wasn't. 

Confident. Charismatic. Loved. 

But he was kind, too. That was the worst part. 

Because kindness was dangerous. 

Kindness made you hope. 

That night, I returned to my diary. The petal from the night before still sat on my nightstand, a stark reminder of the secret blooming inside me. I picked it up, turning it over in my fingers. 

*"Dear Diary,"* 
*"Do you think it's possible to love someone so much that it breaks you? Because I think that's what's happening to me. I think I'm breaking. And I don't know how to stop."* 

The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. I blinked them away, forcing myself to keep writing. 

*"He spoke to me today. It was nothing-just a greeting. But it felt like everything. I think that's the problem. I make too much out of nothing, and I let it consume me. That's why I'll never tell him. Because I know he doesn't feel the same, and I can't bear to see the pity in his eyes. I'd rather keep my silence and let the petals take me."* 

My hand stilled, the pen hovering over the page. The words felt heavier than they should, like they were dragging me down. 

Another cough wracked my body, sharp and sudden. This time, when I pulled my hand away, there were two petals. 

They fluttered to the floor, delicate and white, like tiny ghosts of something that never had a chance to bloom. 

I stared at them for a long time before closing my diary and turning off the lamp. 

The darkness felt like a comfort. 

And for the first time in a long time, I let it consume me.

The meadow wasn't much to look at, not by any traditional standards. It was more weeds than wildflowers, more brown than green, and often overrun with dandelions that most would dismiss as nuisances. But to me, it was a sanctuary. 

I discovered it by accident when I was seven. A fight between my parents had driven me out of the house, tears streaming down my face as I wandered aimlessly through the neighborhood. I didn't know where I was going; I just wanted to be anywhere but there. Somehow, I stumbled across the narrow dirt path that led to this little patch of forgotten land tucked behind the rows of identical houses. 

It wasn't particularly beautiful, not in the way parks or gardens are. There were no manicured lawns, no tidy flowerbeds, no benches for people to sit and chat. But it was quiet. Peaceful. And most importantly, empty. 

I claimed it as my own that day. 

Now, almost a decade later, it still felt like the only place in the world where I could breathe. 

I stood at the edge of the meadow, the cool breeze tugging at the loose strands of hair that had escaped my hood. My lungs still burned faintly from the coughing fit earlier, and I could feel the crumpled tissue in my pocket, a persistent reminder of the petals I'd hidden away. But here, surrounded by the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of insects, I could almost forget. 

Almost. 

I stepped onto the uneven ground, my worn sneakers crunching against the dried grass. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the meadow like dark fingers. I made my way to the old tree near the center, its gnarled branches twisted in a way that always reminded me of a storybook illustration. 

Sliding down to sit against the trunk, I let my bag fall beside me and pulled out my journal. The pages were worn, the spine bent from years of use. This wasn't the same diary I wrote in at night; that one stayed hidden in my room, a repository for secrets too fragile to bring outside. This journal was for memories. Stories. Thoughts I wanted to revisit without fear of judgment. 

I opened it to a blank page and let the pen hover above the paper. 

---

*"I met him here for the first time,"* I wrote. 

The words felt heavier than I expected, anchoring me to a moment I couldn't escape, no matter how many years passed. 

It was second grade. I'd been sitting under this very tree, clutching my knees to my chest as tears rolled down my cheeks. The boys had cornered me at recess again, laughing as they called me names I didn't understand but knew were cruel. My lunch had been knocked to the ground, its contents scattered and ruined, and I'd run off before the teachers could see. 

And then he appeared. 

Mihai. 

He wasn't tall then, just a scrawny kid with messy hair and a wide smile. But even back then, he had a presence about him, something that made people stop and pay attention. 

I hadn't expected him to notice me, let alone sit down beside me. "Why are you crying?" he'd asked, his voice gentle but curious. 

I didn't answer. What could I say? That I was the girl no one liked? The one who was too quiet, too strange, too easy a target? 

But he didn't seem to need an answer. 

"You shouldn't let them get to you," he said, plucking a dandelion from the ground and holding it out to me. "They're just mean because they're bored. My mom says people who are happy don't feel the need to hurt others." 

I stared at the flower in his hand, then at his face. There was no pity in his eyes, only a kindness I didn't understand. 

That was the first time I ever felt warm in my belly. The first time someone was kind to me,

He was the first and only person to ever make me feel seen. 

---

I closed the journal and leaned my head back against the tree, staring up at the canopy above. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating a mosaic of light and shadow that danced across my skin. 

Things had changed so much since that day. 

Mihai was still kind. Still warm. But he belonged to a world I could never touch. 

At school, he was always surrounded by people-laughing, joking, his presence like a magnet drawing everyone toward him. He was the kind of person who made you feel like you mattered, even if only for a moment. But those moments weren't mine. 

Not anymore. 

I closed my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. 

I remembered the way he stood up for me when the boys tried to pick on me again. How he told them to leave me alone, his voice firm and unwavering. How they listened, not because they were afraid, but because they respected him. 

I remembered the way he smiled at me afterward, his hand outstretched to help me up. 

"Don't let them win, okay?" he'd said. 

For a while, I believed him. 

But time has a way of eroding things, even memories. 

---

A sharp cough pulled me from my thoughts, my chest tightening as the familiar ache returned. I pressed a hand to my mouth, muffling the sound, and waited for the fit to pass. When it did, I opened my palm, half-expecting to see petals again. 

There was nothing. 

For now. 

I let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. The meadow stretched out before me, a patchwork of weeds and wildflowers swaying in the breeze. It was the same as it had always been, and yet everything felt different. 

I didn't know how much longer I could keep this to myself. 

The petals weren't just a symptom; they were a warning. A reminder that the feelings I'd buried for so long were starting to take root, growing into something I couldn't control. 

But what could I do? 

Tell Mihai? 

The thought alone was enough to make me laugh. Bitter and hollow, like the echo of a broken dream. 

He wouldn't understand. 

He couldn't. 

So I stayed silent, holding onto my secret like it was the only thing keeping me together. 

And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the meadow in shades of gold and orange, I made a silent promise to myself. 

I would keep coming here, to this place where the world felt smaller and quieter. To the meadow that had been my refuge for so long. 

Because here, at least, I could pretend. 

Pretend that the petals didn't exist. 

Pretend that I wasn't falling apart. 

Pretend that, just for a little while, everything was okay.