**The Woman Who Wasn’t There**
No one ever noticed Margaret. 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 right past without a second glance, as if she were part of the walls—the peeling wallpaper, the unlocked letterbox, the creaky stairs on the landing. She was fifty-nine, and with each passing year, she felt herself fading. Like an old photograph left too long in sunlight—first the edges blur, then the whole image disappears.
At the till, the cashier handed her change without meeting her eyes, as if afraid to glimpse something forgotten, something unpleasant. The neighbour from flat five muttered a curt “hello” while looking past her, as though greeting empty air. Even her son called less and less. “Mum, swamped—I’ll ring you back.” That “swamped” excuse had stretched into its fourth spring, and Margaret 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 expecting her. But no one was. It was her way of holding on—silently, invisibly. A walk down the high street, a bench in the park, a paper cup of cheap machine coffee—none of it was leisure. It was defiance. A quiet scream: *I still exist.*
Margaret watched others—people laughing, arguing, shouting into their mobiles—people who *lived*. And between them, she felt an invisible but solid wall. No gaze ever lingered on her. As if she weren’t a person at all, just an old poster on a lamppost no one bothered to read.
One day, she bought a jacket. Yellow. So bright it was almost rude. The kind you couldn’t ignore. *Maybe now someone will look*, she thought. But no one did. Even the cashier scanned it without glancing up. The jacket was just fabric, and Margaret remained just as unseen.
That evening, shouting echoed in the stairwell. Margaret peeked out. On the steps between floors sat a little girl. Maybe eight years old. Tears streaked her cheeks, her lips trembled, and beside her lay a broken scooter and a battered schoolbag—exercise books spilled out, some smudged.
“What’s happened?” Margaret asked. Her voice was firm, warm, free of pity.
“He called me stupid… then rode off,” the girl whispered, eyes downcast.
Margaret sat beside her, nudged the scooter’s snapped handle aside, and looked at her—really looked. “I’ll tell you this—you’re not stupid. You’re just small. But *he* is. And a coward, too. Hurting others is what the weak do. Explaining takes strength.”
The girl sniffed. Nodded. And suddenly, Margaret felt it—someone *heard* her. Properly. They gathered the books, smoothed the crumpled pages. The scooter she fixed with old duct tape from the cupboard under the stairs. It barely held, but the girl grinned as if it were brand new.
“You’re kind,” the girl said suddenly. “What’s your name?”
“Margaret.”
“I’m Sophie. Will you be my friend? I don’t have any.”
“Alright,” Margaret said. In that word was something she hadn’t felt in years. Warmth. The silence inside her ebbed.
The next day, they walked together down that same high street. Margaret in her yellow jacket, Sophie with her pigtails half undone, clutching a drawing.
“It’s you,” the girl said.
On the paper was a woman. In a bright coat. With enormous wings. They spilled off the edges, as if any moment, they’d lift her into the sky.
Sometimes, coming back to life doesn’t need a crowd’s applause. No fanfare, no grand moment. Sometimes it just takes being needed. By one. By one crying girl on grimy stairs with torn schoolbooks and a broken scooter. Because in that moment, you’re not the background. Not a shadow. Not a smudge in the crowd.
You’re light. And steadiness. You’re someone’s wings. And their “stay.”
That day, I learned: to be seen, sometimes all you need is to see someone else first.
