The Introvert

Lena Carter knew how to disappear.

Not in the literal sense—not yet—but in the way that mattered most. She had perfected the art of blending in at Orchid Valley Senior Secondary School, a place where noise reigned supreme.

Here, popularity was measured by how loud you could be. The cricket team's captain, Arjun Malhotra, walked the halls like he owned them, surrounded by his loud, laughing friends. The girls from the dance club always had a speaker blasting some new Bollywood remix, their voices carrying over the school courtyard. Even the studious ones—the rankers—made themselves known through debates, student elections, or competitive coaching classes.

Lena? She was none of those things.

She sat in the second-last bench, in the farthest row by the window. Never the last bench—too obvious. Never the front—too exposed. She kept her head down, her earphones in (even when there was no music playing), and spoke only when forced to. Teachers barely noticed her. Classmates forgot she existed.

And that was exactly how she liked it.

Until the day she actually disappeared.

---

It started in English class.

The teacher, Mrs. Mehta, was discussing some poem Lena hadn't been paying attention to. It didn't matter—she knew the drill. The teacher would call on one of the same five students who always answered, she would nod, and they would move on.

But today, Mrs. Mehta's eyes scanned the classroom differently. Searching. Pausing. And then—

"Lena, why don't you explain this line?"

Lena's heart stopped.

A few students turned to look at her. Whispers floated around. Someone even nudged their friend, as if to say, Who's that?

She swallowed, gripping the sides of her desk. She could already feel her palms sweating, her face heating up. She didn't know the answer. She barely even knew the question.

Don't look at me. Please don't look at me.

She shut her eyes, wishing—praying—to vanish.

And then, the world blinked.

When she opened her eyes, everything had changed.

Mrs. Mehta had already moved on, calling another student's name as if she had never called Lena's in the first place. The students weren't looking at her anymore. No one even seemed to notice that she hadn't spoken.

Even stranger—her hands weren't sweaty anymore.

Her breathing had steadied. Her heartbeat was normal.

It was as if the moment of panic had never happened.

Like she had never been there at all.

---

After school, Lena rushed home.

She lived in a small apartment with her mother, a quiet woman who worked long hours at an accounting firm. It was just the two of them—her father had left years ago, and she never bothered asking why.

Locking herself in her room, she sat on her bed and tried to piece it together.

Had she imagined it? A panic attack? A daydream?

Or had she really… disappeared?

As the evening wore on, she convinced herself it was nothing. Just nerves. She was overthinking it.

Until it happened again.

This time, it wasn't in class. It wasn't at school.

It was in her own home.

She was standing in front of the mirror, staring at herself, when the thought crossed her mind again:

I don't want to be seen.

And then—

Her reflection vanished.

Lena gasped and stumbled back, her hands shaking. She looked down at herself—her arms, her legs—but they weren't there.

She had disappeared.

Not metaphorically. Not in a way she could explain away.

She had actually, physically disappeared.

And this time, there was no one else to prove her wrong.

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