They talk around me like I’m air, a breeze that doesn’t rustle hair. Smiles float past, meant for someone near, I fold myself smaller, year by year. I learn the art of quiet hands, of shrinking space where no one stands. The light forgets to fall my way, like even sunbeams look away. But sometimes in a quiet room, I hum a song, and flowers bloom. In being unseen, I find my thread, a hidden world that blooms instead.