Absolutely — here's Chapter Two of
You'd think stepping out of someone's shadow would be loud. Dramatic. Maybe even cinematic.
But for me, it was as quiet as a breath held too long.
I started with the little things.
No more walking to school with Christabel. I told her I had "extra reading" and took the long way instead — headphones in, music up, mind clear. It wasn't that I didn't want her company. I just needed space. Space to think, to exist, to remember what it felt like to just be without being next to her.
At first, she didn't notice.
Of course not. Her mornings were filled with good mornings from boys two grades ahead and teachers who smiled wider when she walked in. My absence was like dust in the wind — noticed only by me.
But by the third day, she stopped me in the hallway.
"You okay?" she asked, curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head.
I nodded. Lied. "Just tired."
She gave me that look — the one that almost made me spill the truth. But she let it go. Christabel was sunshine, but she didn't like storms. She didn't know what to do with clouds.
That weekend, I went to a party without her. On purpose.
She'd been invited, obviously — probably the first on the list. But I got my own invite this time. From Rachel, the quiet girl who sat two seats behind me in literature class. She said she liked the way I analyzed poems. Said I had "good thoughts." No mention of Christabel. Just me.
I stood in front of my mirror for almost an hour before leaving. Wore a dress I never dared to wear before — deep green, off-shoulder, not flashy but honest. It made me feel something I hadn't felt in years.
Visible.
When I arrived, no one turned around in surprise. No one rushed to offer me a drink. But Rachel smiled wide when she saw me and introduced me to her friends — people who hadn't already decided who I was based on who I stood next to.
And then it happened.
Halfway through the night, while I was laughing — really laughing — someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, expecting another "Is Christabel here?" or "Do you know where she is?"
But instead, he said:
"I like your laugh."
I blinked. "What?"
He shrugged, nervous. "You're usually so quiet. It's nice hearing you."
It wasn't a confession. It wasn't fireworks. But it was real — a sliver of attention that was mine.
And for the first time in years, I didn't feel like a side note. I felt like a beginning.
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