The Woman Who Wasn’t There
No one noticed Eleanor. Not on the bus, not at the chemist’s, not even in her own building, where she’d lived for over twenty years. People walked past without a glance, as if she were part of the walls—peeling paint, a broken mailbox, creaky stairs. She was fifty-nine, and with each year, she felt herself fading. Like an old photograph left too long in the sun—first the edges blurred, then the rest vanished.
At the till, the cashier handed her change without meeting her eyes, as though afraid of seeing something forgotten, something unpleasant. The neighbour from the fifth floor muttered a curt “hello,” staring past her as if greeting empty air. Even her son called less often. “Mum, swamped at work—I’ll ring you back.” That swamp had lasted four springs now, and Eleanor had long stopped waiting.
Every morning, she buttoned up a fresh blouse, tied her scarf neatly, and stepped outside. As if she had somewhere to be. As if someone were waiting. But no one was. It was her only way of holding onto herself—even if no one noticed. A walk down the high street, a bench in the park, a cup of cheap coffee from a vending machine—none of it was leisure. It was defiance. A quiet scream: “I’m still here.”
Eleanor watched others—the ones who laughed, argued, shouted into their phones, the ones who lived. And she felt an invisible but solid wall between them. No one’s gaze lingered on her. As if she weren’t a person at all, but an old flyer on a lamppost, long since ignored.
One day, she bought a jacket. Bright yellow. Unapologetically bold. The kind you couldn’t ignore. “Maybe someone will turn their head,” she thought. But no one did. Even the cashier rang it up without looking. The jacket remained just fabric. And Eleanor—just as invisible.
That evening, someone was crying in the stairwell. Eleanor peered out. On the steps, half-hidden in shadow, sat a little girl. About eight years old. Tears streaked her cheeks, her lips trembled, a broken scooter and a battered rucksack beside her—exercise books spilled out, some smudged with dirt.
“What happened?” Eleanor asked. Her voice was firmer than she expected, warm but without pity.
“He said I was daft… and then he left,” the girl whispered, not looking up.
Eleanor sat beside her, carefully nudged the scooter’s broken handle, and studied the girl—really looked at her.
“Listen—you’re not daft. You’re just little. But he? He’s the daft one. And a coward, probably. Because hurting people is easy. Explaining things? That’s hard.”
The girl sniffed. Nodded. And suddenly, Eleanor felt it—she was being heard. Properly. Together, they gathered the books, smoothed their covers, stuffed them back into the rucksack. The scooter she fixed with old duct tape from the cupboard under the stairs. It wobbled, but the girl grinned as if it were brand new.
“You’re nice,” the girl said suddenly. “What’s your name?”
“Eleanor.”
“I’m Sophie. Will you be my friend? I don’t have any friends.”
“Alright,” Eleanor said. In that word was something she hadn’t felt in years. Warmth. The silence inside her eased.
The next day, they walked together down that same high street. Eleanor in her yellow jacket, Sophie with her hair half-out of its plait, clutching a drawing in her hand.
“It’s you,” the girl said. “I drew you.”
On the paper was a woman. In a bright coat. With enormous wings. They barely fit on the page, spilling over the edges as if ready to lift her into the sky.
Sometimes, to come alive again, you don’t need the world’s applause. No crowds, no fanfare. Sometimes, all it takes is being needed. By one person. One crying girl on a grubby staircase with torn books and a broken scooter. Because in that moment, you’re not the background. Not a shadow. Not a smudge in the crowd.
You’re the light. The steady hand. You’re someone’s wings. And their “stay.”
