Echo

Nina Velasquez was the kind of girl people called quiet before they ever asked her name. She walked with earbuds in, not because she loved music—though she did—but because silence was too loud. It hummed. It buzzed. It filled her head with noise no one else could hear.

Since she was thirteen, Nina had heard what she assumed were echoes of her own thoughts. A running stream of feelings, fragments of sentences, intrusive ideas that came and went like flickers on a broken TV. Anxiety, maybe. That’s what the school counselor said.

“You’re just overwhelmed,” the counselor told her. “Lots of kids your age are. Your brain’s still finding its rhythm.”

She wanted to believe that. She tried to believe that. But things got harder to explain.

Like the time she was in the lunch line, and the guy behind her thought, Hope no one sees I’m short on money. Two seconds later, she turned and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

He blinked. “What?”

And Nina just shrugged, like it was instinct.

It happened again in chemistry when her partner panicked during a quiz. Before he could open his mouth, she whispered, “It’s copper sulfate.” He looked at her like she was either psychic or cheating. Maybe both.

The tipping point came on a Tuesday in November, right after her brother came home looking like he’d run from something. He barely got through the door before she blurted out, “You skipped school today.”

He froze. “How do you know that?”

Nina didn’t answer. Because the truth was too strange: the idea had appeared in her head a split second before he said anything. Like hearing a whisper from inside someone else’s mouth. It wasn’t a voice she recognized. It wasn’t even complete. But it was real.

She heard it again: He’s going to blame Mom.

“Don’t,” she snapped.

His eyes went wide. “How did you—?”

She left the room without another word.

That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning in lazy circles. The hum in her mind was louder than usual. Thoughts not hers. Emotions that weren’t grounded in anything she was feeling.

Please don’t look at me.

Just breathe. Don’t cry here.

I wish I were someone else.

They came in waves, hitting her with the weight of a world she wasn’t built to carry.

But slowly, Nina realized she could tune in. Like adjusting an old radio, she could sharpen some signals, blur others. The thoughts got clearer near people. Stronger when emotions ran high. If someone was calm, it was like static. But fear? Rage? Desperation? That came in loud and sharp.

At first, it overwhelmed her. Crowds were unbearable. She started skipping lunch to avoid the mental noise. But by spring, Nina began experimenting. She watched people from afar, practiced matching thoughts to faces, predicting what they'd say or do. Not always—some people were hard to read—but enough to prove it wasn’t coincidence.

Then she met Naomi.

Naomi sat three rows back in art class, always sketching, always smiling. She talked to people like she wasn’t afraid of being heard. But the first time Nina let her mind slip toward Naomi’s… she froze.

Don’t go home tonight. Don’t go. Don’t go. Please, not again.

The thought was raw, buried under layers of practiced calm. But it was there.

For three days, Nina sat on it. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t let it go. Then, without a plan, she went to the guidance counselor. She didn’t use names. Just a nudge. A student. A suspicion. Something didn’t feel right.

A week later, Naomi missed school. The next Monday, she came back with a worn hoodie, a fresh haircut, and a foster services tag clipped to her bag.

She saw Nina in the hallway and smiled—really smiled. For the first time, Nina didn’t hear static.

That night, everything changed. Nina sat in her room, staring at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked the same. Same dark eyes. Same quiet mouth. Same headphones around her neck.

But something inside her was louder now. Not noise. Purpose.

She couldn’t un-hear the world. She couldn’t undo what she was. But maybe… maybe she could use it.

So, she started listening.

At first, it was small things. Intervening when a classmate’s thoughts spun out of control. Leaving notes for kids whose minds screamed for help. Telling teachers about subtle signs they’d missed. She never took credit. She just listened, quietly shifting the course of moments before they cracked.

But she learned limits, too.

Some thoughts she couldn’t reach in time. Some people didn’t want help. And some minds were locked so tight, she only caught static and silence.

Still, she kept showing up. Day by day. Mind by mind.

Because Nina didn’t have super strength. She couldn’t fly. She wasn’t fighting crime or lifting buses. But she could hear people when no one else could. And that, somehow, was enough.

She wasn’t invisible anymore.

She was the quietest superhero no one knew was there—saving people not with noise, but by finally understanding what they couldn’t say out loud.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the real power.