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    You’ve seen me before.
    We’ve had classes together, remember? I was in your Algebra class, the one with thirty desks and twenty-eight students. I sat in the back with empty desks on either side of me.
    No, you don’t remember. I don’t blame you; nobody does.
    You don’t know my name. You’ve heard my name—over the intercom—but there’s a difference. You can’t put a face to it.
    We even talked once. You bumped into me during passing period, and said “sorry” over your shoulder.
    But I might as well be invisible, because when the substitute teacher called my name during roll call, you said, “Who?”
    It hurts sometimes. Especially when I see you laughing with your friends, walking with your entourage and smiling like you’re the happiest person in the world. 
    It must be nice, being popular. Visible.
    But I don’t need you. I want you, but I don’t need you.
    I have my books, my writing. My characters are my friends, and they love me. When I was in Algebra, with the empty desks on either side of me, invisible, I wrote.
    I write, and I have a silent ambition.
    Someday, years from now, you will know my name. And I will hear yours and say, “Who?”

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