Things She Never Said.

In a narrow house with peeling paint and uneven tiles, lived a girl named Mira, who was the middle child of five.

She wasn’t the loud one — that was her younger brother, who screamed when he didn’t get what he wanted.

She wasn’t the bright one — that was her older sister, who got medals and applause at every school event.

She wasn’t the baby of the family either — that role came with cuddles and soft voices.

Mira was somewhere in between. And in the space between everything, she disappeared.

At seven years old, she had already learned how to stay small.

She didn’t ask for seconds at dinner, even when her stomach growled.

She didn’t raise her hand in class, even when she knew the answer.

She didn’t cry when her hair was brushed too hard or when she was scolded for something her brother did.

She kept everything inside — a quiet box of words and thoughts, carefully folded like clothes she had outgrown.

Her days followed a pattern.

Wake up, get dressed, pack her bag herself. Her mother was too busy dressing the baby, and her father was already gone by sunrise.

Walk to school. Alone. Her sister left earlier. Her brothers were dropped off by their mother in a rush, always late.

In class, she sat by the window. She liked the way the light came in, warm and soft — it reminded her of kindness. The kind she didn’t hear much at home.

Once, her teacher asked the class to draw their families.

Children filled pages with stick figures and smiley faces.

Mira drew a tiny figure in the corner of a big page. Around her were taller people with no faces. In the sky, instead of the sun, she drew a small box with a lock.

“What’s this, Mira?” her teacher asked.

She shrugged. “It’s a safe place.”

The teacher didn’t ask more.

Birthdays were ordinary days in Mira’s home — unless you were the favorite that year.

On Mira’s eighth birthday, the house was full of noise. Her sister had a school trophy to show off. Her brother had broken the remote and blamed it on her. Her mother shouted for someone to clean up the spilled milk.

Mira sat at the corner of the dining table with a paper she had folded into a card. It said:

“Dear Mama, I love you more than the stars. Love, Mira.”

She waited to give it to her.

Waited through the chaos. Waited through dinner.

That night, she placed it under her pillow. She never gave it.

No one said happy birthday.

One rainy afternoon, Mira came home with wet socks and a crumpled art project she had carried under her sweater. It was a painting of a house. Not her house, though.

It had yellow windows glowing, people sitting close together. Smiling.

She placed it on the fridge with a magnet.

The next day, her sister replaced it with her exam results.

Mira’s painting ended up in the trash, next to an empty milk carton.

Sometimes she thought about disappearing.

Not forever — just enough to see who would notice.

Maybe she’d hide behind the couch or inside the old storage closet.

Maybe she’d climb into the cupboard under the stairs with her flashlight and a notebook.

And when someone finally realized she was missing, they’d panic. They’d cry. They’d shout her name and say they were sorry for forgetting.

But she never did it.

Because deep down, she was afraid that even if she disappeared, no one would notice.

One day, at school, a classmate passed her a note during art.

It said:

“You’re quiet. Are you okay?”

Mira looked up, surprised.

It was from a boy who sat behind her. They had never spoken.

She didn’t write back. But she folded the note carefully and placed it in her pencil box, like a treasure.

It was the first time someone had asked.

That night, she sat on the floor of her room with a candle (the electricity had gone again), writing in a small notebook with a red cover. It was a gift from her school — a prize for “Most Improved Reading.”

No one at home had asked where the notebook came from.

On the first page, she wrote:

“Today someone saw me. Just a little. But it mattered.”

The years passed.

She stayed quiet.

She stopped expecting birthday wishes.

Stopped waiting for her mother to ask what her favorite food was.

Stopped hoping her father would notice when she wore her new sweater.

But she wrote. Every day.

Little sentences. Half-thoughts.

She filled pages and notebooks with the things she never said out loud.

By the time Mira turned eleven, her notebooks were full.

One evening, while the house thundered with arguments and footsteps and slamming doors, Mira opened her window and placed one notebook outside on the ledge.

Inside it, on the last page, she had written:

“If someone ever reads this, just know — I was here. Even if no one else saw me.”

The wind lifted the edges of the paper, gently.

Then it stayed still.

Just like her.

Still.

But not gone.