Chapter Seven: We Were Never Invisible
Mina's Chapter
Mina never minded being looked at.
At least, that's what she told herself.
She knew how to smile the right way, how to tilt her head like she was thinking something clever, how to walk through a hallway like the floor had been laid just for her. People followed that kind of rhythm. They clung to it. Admired it. Feared it, sometimes.
She liked that.
Control.
Or the illusion of it.
But the picture ruined all of that.
Not because it showed anything bad—just her and Kira, walking together, too close maybe, their faces angled toward each other like gravity was pulling them closer.
That was it.
But somehow it felt worse than being naked.
It was intimacy, frozen and flung wide open.
And people were talking.
A lot.
Some whispered behind their hands in the halls. Others didn't bother hiding it.
"Didn't think Mina swung that way."
"Kira James? Seriously?"
"She's not even hot. She looks like she eats pencils."
"Bet it's just for attention."
Mina laughed the first time she heard it.
She laughed too hard.
But it wasn't funny.
Not at all.
She didn't talk to Kira that day.
Not because she didn't want to.
Because she didn't know how.
How to explain the ache that bloomed in her chest every time someone stared at her too long. How to explain the way her hands had trembled when she saw her own face lit up on someone else's phone screen.
Because it wasn't just a picture.
It was them.
And "them" was fragile. Still new. Still secret.
Maybe it was supposed to stay that way.
At home, she lay on her bed with her phone upside down beside her.
Notifications blinked, but she ignored them.
She stared at the ceiling.
And thought about Kira.
About her long sleeves and her quiet voice. The way her eyes got bigger when she was about to speak but sometimes didn't. The way her fingers danced over paper like they were trying to make something real from smoke.
And Mina missed her.
Like a bruise you forget about until you press it too hard.
Her locker opened with a soft click the next morning.
A folded page sat on top of her books.
Not crumpled. Not shoved. Just… placed.
Mina unfolded it carefully.
And there they were—sketched in shadows and pencil dust. Her and Kira, surrounded by blurry outlines of other people, the noise of the world made into graphite chaos. Kira's hand stretched toward her, reaching. Mina looking away.
It was titled: What We Don't Say Out Loud.
Mina swallowed hard.
Her fingers trembled around the page.
She wanted to run.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to kiss her.
Lunch came, and she couldn't find Kira.
Not in the library. Not near the art room. Not in the little corner by the vending machines where they sometimes sat.
Panic flared, hot and fast.
Until she saw her—outside, sitting on the back steps by the gym, hoodie up, sketchbook in her lap, knees drawn in tight.
Like she was trying to make herself disappear.
Mina approached slowly.
Carefully.
Kira didn't look up.
So Mina sat.
Close.
Close enough to feel her breathing.
Neither of them spoke.
Then Kira said, "It's okay if you don't want to be seen with me."
The words sliced through her.
"I didn't say that," Mina whispered.
"You didn't have to."
"I just—" Mina stopped, took a shaky breath. "It was a lot."
"I know."
"It wasn't about you. It's… it's them."
Kira's voice was flat. "It's always them."
Mina looked at her. Really looked. And Kira looked tired. Not just in the way you look after a sleepless night, but in the way you look after weeks, years of trying not to be too much or too little, and always failing.
"I'm sorry," Mina said, and meant it.
Kira didn't respond right away.
Then, softly: "Did you hate the picture?"
Mina blinked. "No. I hated that everyone else saw it before I could tell them what it meant."
"And what does it mean?"
Mina's throat tightened.
"It means… I like you. And I'm scared. And I don't want to be scared anymore."
Silence.
But it wasn't heavy this time.
Just waiting.
Then Kira reached into her sketchbook and pulled out a torn page.
It was a new drawing.
Just hands.
Intertwined.
Kira's and Mina's.
You could tell by the bracelet Mina always wore, and the way Kira's thumb curled inward like it was trying to hide.
Beneath it, one line in small, quiet letters:
If they're going to look—let's give them something worth seeing.
Mina laughed.
Then she cried.
Kira panicked and tried to hand her a sleeve to wipe her tears.
But Mina just leaned in and wrapped her arms around her.
She didn't care if anyone saw.
Not anymore.
That night, Mina posted a picture on her story.
Not the sketch—she asked before sharing that.
Just a photo of Kira's hand in hers. Their fingers locked.
No caption.
No filter.
She didn't wait to see who unfollowed her.
Didn't flinch when the messages started.
She just turned her phone off and went to bed with Kira's drawing tucked under her pillow.
For once, the quiet felt like a beginning.
Not an apology.