THE ART OF BEING SEEN

Aisha Rahim always believed that blending in was the safest way to survive senior year. Walk quickly. Nod politely. Keep your grades high and your expectations low. At Crownbridge High, where reputations formed faster than rumors and spread twice as far, being invisible felt like a shield.

But everything changed the morning Ms. Carver announced the annual Cultural Arts Showcase.

“Projects are due in three weeks,” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “This year, we want original performances. Something that reflects who you are.”

Aisha’s stomach tightened. Reflect on who she was? She wasn’t even sure she knew who she was—at least, not the version the world would understand.

Her best friend, Jade, turned to her, brown curls bouncing. “You should do spoken word,” she whispered. “Your poems are insane.”

Aisha almost laughed. “Only because I never show them to anyone.”

“Exactly,” Jade said. “It’s time.”

But Aisha shook her head. Time for what? Time to expose every insecurity she’d spent years hiding? Time to risk being judged? No, thank you.

She had planned to do a poster or research project—something safe, something silent—but then Ms. Carver made the announcement that ruined all her plans:

“Projects will be displayed publicly. Presentations are mandatory.”

Aisha lowered her head onto her desk.

Perfect.

________________________________________

THE PRESSURE BUILDS

By the end of the week, the showcase had become the only thing anyone talked about. Hallways filled with excited planning—cheerleaders choreographing dances, the drama club practicing monologues, the band tuning instruments during lunch.

Everyone seemed to know exactly who they were.

Everyone except Aisha.

Her home wasn’t much of an escape either. Her mother worked double shifts at the hospital and believed school was only useful if it led to a scholarship. Her father, busy managing the family shop, expected excellence, not excuses.

“A 95 is good,” he said at dinner, tapping his phone calculator. “But a 98 is better.”

Aisha smiled weakly, swallowing her frustration. She didn’t want to be perfect. She just wanted to be understood.

One night, she opened her notebook of poems—words she had written when she was overwhelmed, angry, or hopeful. They felt like pieces of her heart stitched together in ink.

She traced the lines with her fingers.

Maybe Jade was right. Maybe it was time.

But the thought of performing in front of the entire school made her chest tighten. She couldn’t do it. Not alone.

________________________________________

ENTER THE NEWCOMER

Next Monday, a transfer student will join their grade. His name was Noah Castillo—quiet, sharp-eyed, and carrying a sketchbook he refused to let anyone peek inside.

Naturally, that meant Jade had to introduce herself.

“Noah, hi! I’m Jade. This is Aisha. You’re new.”

He blinked. “Yeah. Just moved here.”

“Are you doing the showcase?” Jade asked.

“Probably drawing something.”

“See? Everyone’s doing something cool,” Jade said, elbowing Aisha.

Noah looked at her. “What about you?”

Aisha stared at her shoes. “I… haven’t decided.”

He studied her for a second—not judging, just observing.

“Whatever it is,” he said quietly, “I think it’ll be good.”

His voice was calm, steady. Strangely reassuring.

But Aisha brushed it off. He didn’t know her. Not really.

________________________________________

A PARTNERSHIP ACCIDENTALLY FORMED

A week later, Ms. Carver made an announcement:

“Anyone who hasn’t chosen a project partner by Friday will be assigned one.”

Aisha froze. She hated group projects. She hated relying on others. And she really hated the idea of being paired with someone random.

Jade had already partnered with two theater kids for a dance number. She mouthed to Aisha: I’m sorry! I thought you had someone!

Aisha didn’t. And she didn’t know how to fix it.

On Friday, Ms. Carver read names off a clipboard.

“Aisha Rahim… your partner is Noah Castillo.”

Jade’s eyes widened. “OH.”

Aisha pressed her notebook to her chest. Noah looked over from the other side of the classroom, surprised but not upset.

“Well,” he said, walking over, “looks like it’s us.”

Us.

Her pulse jumped at the word.

________________________________________

THE PROJECT BEGINS

They met in the library after school. Aisha sat stiffly, unsure what to say, while Noah flipped through his sketchbook like he was preparing for battle.

“We should figure out what we’re doing,” he said.

“I don’t know,” Aisha murmured.

“Well… what do you like?”

She hesitated. “Writing. Poetry, mostly.”

“That’s cool. What do you write about?”

Aisha’s mind spiraled: Everything. Nothing. Things I’m scared of. Things I want. Things I don’t understand.

“Just… stuff.”

Noah nodded. “Want to use it for our project?”

She nearly dropped her notebook. “What? No. Definitely not.”

“Why? You're good.”

“You’ve never read anything I wrote.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but I’ve seen the way you look at your notebook. Like it matters.”

Aisha swallowed hard. How could he see right through her?

Noah offered his sketchbook. “I’ll show you something if you show me something.”

A trade.

Her heart thudded.

“Okay,” she whispered.

They exchanged books like two soldiers offering weapons.

His sketchbook was filled with raw, aching art—faces haunted by emotions he couldn’t verbalize. There was loneliness in the shading, anger in the strokes, longing in the lines.

She realized: he hid behind drawings the same way she hid behind words.

For the first time, she didn’t feel alone.

________________________________________

THE IDEA

On a rainy afternoon, inspiration finally struck.

“What if,” Noah said, tapping his pencil, “we make a performance using both… your words and my art?”

“Like… a live poem while your drawings are projected behind me?”

“Exactly.”

Aisha froze. “I can’t perform in front of people.”

“You won’t be alone,” he said. “I’ll be up there too.”

That made something warm bloom in her chest—hope, maybe.

They worked for hours every day after school. Sharing stories. Trusting each other with secrets.

Aisha wrote lines she never believed she’d share:

I learned to be silent before I learned to speak,

so people wouldn’t hear the ways I break.

But sometimes silence is just another word for lonely.

Noah drew illustrations to match—cracked masks, silhouettes reaching for light, windows opening onto endless sky.

It felt real. It felt honest.

It felt like them.

________________________________________

THE BREAKDOWN

Two days before the showcase, disaster hit.

A group of popular students overheard Aisha reading part of her poem during rehearsal.

“What was that?” one of them sneered. “A therapy session?”

“Maybe she’s auditioning for Most Dramatic?”

The laughter echoed in the hallway.

Aisha’s throat closed. Heat stabbed behind her eyes.

She ran.

Noah found her on the back steps, hugging her knees, hiding her tears.

“I’m not doing it,” she said. “I can’t.”

“They’re just being idiots.”

“It doesn’t matter! They laughed, Noah. I can’t stand on that stage and let everyone laugh.”

He sat beside her. Silent at first.

Then, quietly:

“I used to get bullied too. For drawing. For being quiet. For being different.”

She looked up, startled.

“Middle school was hell,” he said. “I almost stopped drawing entirely. But if you stop doing what you love because of people who don’t matter… You let them win.”

She wiped her face. “I’m not brave like you.”

“You're wrong,” Noah said. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

His voice was steady, warm, unshakable.

Something shifted inside her—fear turning, slowly, into determination.

“Okay,” she breathed. “I’ll do it.”

________________________________________

THE SHOWCASE

The auditorium was packed.

Lights dimmed. Students whispered. Teachers rushed around with clipboards.

Aisha’s hands shook so badly that she dropped her notebook twice. Noah squeezed her shoulder.

“We’ll do it together,” he whispered.

She nodded.

Then the curtains opened.

Spotlights poured down.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears.

Noah’s drawings began to appear on the giant screen—shadows, light, masks breaking open.

Aisha stepped forward.

And she spoke.

At first, her voice trembled, but the words carried her. Every line she had written in secret now unfurled into the world.

I used to shrink myself to fit into quiet corners,

hoping no one would look too closely.

But being unseen isn’t the same as being safe.

It’s just another way to disappear.

Gasps. Silence. Captivated faces.

She kept going.

With each verse, Noah’s art came alive—her voice and his drawings merging into something greater than either alone.

When they finished, the room erupted.

Applause. Cheers. Even tears from Ms. Carver.

Aisha felt breathless—not from fear, but from relief. From pride.

For the first time, she felt seen.

Truly seen.

________________________________________

AFTERWARD

When the crowd dispersed, Noah turned to her with a shy smile.

“You did it.”

We did it, she wanted to say.

But she just smiled back. “Thanks for believing in me.”

He shrugged lightly. “Always.”

Always.

Aisha felt warmth spread through her—something tender, something new. A first spark of something deeper than friendship.

Maybe the start of something she wasn’t ready to name yet.

But for now, it was enough.

She wasn’t invisible anymore.

THE END