The Invisible Friend in My Group Chat

The Invisible Friend in My Group Chat

Genre: Contemporary / Reflective Nonfiction / Emotional Realism

Picture Ideas at the End

The Invisible Friend in My Group Chat

There are seven of us in the group chat.

Loud. Hilarious. Active. Typing all the time. Messages flying faster than a confused mind can catch. Memes, birthday wishes, inside jokes, voice notes, chaotic energy in digital form.

And then, there’s me.

The eighth name. Always online. Never really... there.

Not by intention. Not exactly.

It’s not that I don’t want to speak. I just don’t know how to, sometimes. In a sea of rapid-fire conversations, I worry my words might float awkwardly, like a lost balloon no one wants to catch.

I used to type out full replies. Thoughtful responses. Little sparks of effort to show I cared. But by the time I hit send, five new jokes had already replaced the topic.

So I began deleting things before I ever sent them. And slowly, I became what they now call me—the ghost reader.

They joke about it:

"Look who's finally alive!"

"We should hold a séance for [my name]."

"You read everything but never say a word."

They're not wrong.

But they don’t know I notice everything.

I know that Mari always types “HAHAHA” in all caps when she’s had a bad day—because she’s trying to overcompensate for the dull ache in her chest.

I know that Zayn’s jokes get darker during exam season—not because he’s edgy, but because stress pulls him toward humor like a shield.

I notice that Noor only ever sends selfies when she’s wearing makeup. On bare-face days, she hides behind Bitmojis or silence.

And Ahmed? He’s the most talkative, the “fun guy.” But when his voice notes start with “Broooo guess what,” and his laugh sounds half a second late? That’s when he needs someone to ask him if he’s okay.

But no one does. Not because they’re heartless. Just because they’re loud. Fast. Distracted.

I’m not saying I’m better. I’m just… invisible. And from here, I see things more clearly.

Sometimes I respond with a laughing emoji. Sometimes a “LOL.” Safe, non-committal, easy. Just enough to be remembered. Not enough to be understood.

They call me the “quiet one.” But what they don’t realize is that silence isn’t absence. It’s attention.

They don’t know I screen-recorded Mari’s first singing voice note because it was beautiful and she deleted it 30 seconds later out of embarrassment. I still listen to it on rainy days.

They don’t know I saved the meme Noor made when she got dumped, because it was the first time she turned pain into art.

They don’t know I once retyped a long message to Ahmed, telling him I noticed he seemed off—but deleted it because I convinced myself it would sound weird.

They don’t know that when someone finally says, “Let’s meet up,” I read that message ten times. Not to decide if I’ll go. But to prepare myself to be the quiet shadow again in a room full of color.

Sometimes, being quiet feels like a burden you never signed up for. Like you're the backstage crew at a play—you make sure everything runs smoothly, but no one claps for you at the end.

But it also gives you a strange kind of superpower: the power of knowing people without them knowing you’re watching.

One night, Mari messaged the group at 3:12 a.m. Just a single word:

“Ugh.”

The chat was silent. Everyone asleep.

But I was there.

Typing.

Deleting.

Typing again.

Then I just sent:

“Want to talk?”

She replied instantly:

“You saw that?”

“I always see.”

We didn’t speak much. Just a few messages. But she said that was the first time someone replied to one of her late-night breakdowns.

After that, she started messaging me outside the group. Quiet conversations. Real ones.

Zayn messaged me once too, privately. About his brother. I don’t know why he chose me. Maybe because I’d reacted to one of his darker jokes with a “you okay?” when no one else noticed.

I’m still mostly invisible in the group chat. I still don’t send memes fast enough. Still don’t fight to be the loudest.

But sometimes—just sometimes—one of them will tag me in a message directly. Like:

“@me, what do you think?”

Or

“You’ll like this one.”

And in those moments, I don’t feel like the ghost anymore.

I feel like the narrator of a story everyone forgot they needed.