The Straggle of Addison

Addison Clarke was not the kind of girl who drew attention. She moved through the world like a shadow—quiet, unnoticed, and unbothered. On the outside, she was ordinary: a seventeen-year-old girl with long brown hair, a green hoodie that always seemed a size too large, and eyes that seemed far too tired for someone her age. But inside her, storms raged. Not the kind you could see. Not the kind anyone cared to ask about.

Her days started early, not because she wanted to, but because sleep rarely came easy. The silence of the early morning was the only time Addison felt like the world wasn’t spinning too fast. She’d sit at the window, hugging her knees, and watch the neighborhood slowly come alive—mothers yelling for their kids to get ready, engines starting, bikes rolling past. All of it felt like a movie she wasn’t cast in.

Addison’s struggle wasn’t loud. It wasn’t the kind that made you scream or cry out in public. It was a silent war—fought in hallways filled with whispers, in classrooms where her hand stayed down, and at lunch tables where seats beside her were always mysteriously empty. Her thoughts weren’t always kind to her, and some days, they were downright cruel.

“You’re not enough.”

“No one would notice if you disappeared.”

“You’re just a burden.”

These voices weren’t audible to others. Only Addison could hear them. And she believed them.

At home, things weren’t much better. Her mother, distant and distracted by an endless string of boyfriends, rarely noticed when Addison skipped dinner. Her father was long gone—just a name on a birth certificate and a few stories told with bitterness and wine. Addison had learned early on not to expect comfort. It never came.

The only place she found any sense of control was her sketchbook. Lines and shapes gave her freedom—portraits of people she imagined, places she’d never been but longed to go. Art was her voice when words failed. Sometimes, she drew herself—not as she was, but as she wanted to be: strong, confident, unbreakable.

One rainy afternoon, something changed.

Mr. Carter, her English teacher, had assigned a personal essay titled “What I Wish People Knew.” Addison stared at the prompt for three days before writing a single word. When she finally put pen to paper, the dam broke.

She wrote about the loneliness that clung to her like a second skin. About the anxiety that paralyzed her in crowded halls. About the nights she spent crying quietly, the mornings she dreaded waking up. And most of all, she wrote about the crushing feeling of being invisible in a world that demanded you be loud to matter.

She didn’t expect Mr. Carter to read it. Not really. Teachers were always busy, skimming pages for grammar and spelling errors. But he did read it. Every word.

The next day, he pulled her aside.

“Addison,” he said gently, “Your essay—it was brave. Painful, but brave. You’re not invisible. I see you.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself cry—in front of someone.

Mr. Carter introduced her to the school counselor, Mrs. Greene. Addison resisted at first, unsure if talking to another adult would make a difference. But Mrs. Greene didn’t ask too many questions. She just listened. And that, Addison learned, was powerful.

Week by week, the walls around her began to crack. She joined an after-school art club. She started saying “hi” to a girl in her history class—Jules—who, it turned out, also knew what loneliness felt like. They started sitting together at lunch, drawing together, talking about books they both hated and songs they secretly loved.

Addison’s battles didn’t vanish overnight. The dark days still came—sometimes out of nowhere. But she no longer faced them alone. She found strength in small victories: making it through a presentation without panicking, asking for help when she needed it, looking in the mirror and seeing more than just her flaws.

One day, she taped a drawing to her bedroom wall. It was of a girl standing on a cliff, wind in her hair, looking out at the sea. The caption read: “She stood, not because the storm had passed—but because she chose to keep standing.”

That girl was Addison.