Dear Dani,

Congratulations on your college acceptance—I knew you’d always make it. Know that I believe in you, even when I don’t say it.

There’s also so much I wanted to say to you in person, but I didn’t know how to go about it. So here I am, writing all of this out so I could hand it to you during our last meeting. 

I remembered that evening you read your essay aloud to me before saying it was too cliché, that it probably sounded like the thousand others you’ve heard around. “My life story is a trite trope,” you told me, even sipping from your favorite mug you always brought to get free coffee at the desk. 

I replied, “You’re one in eight billion.” You laughed, telling me how ironic I sounded, but you can’t deny until now what I’ve said was true—because you truly are. 

My life, for instance, is one of many you’ve changed. Back then, I felt like a ghost shuffling through our school corridors on the way to the student lounge, my only safe haven apart from my own bedroom. Being the younger sister of the basketball MVP, and the older sister of a Math Olympiad champion, I felt pressured to be something too.

But the world around me deemed as though anything I did wasn’t amounting to…anything. I tried inventing myself as an artist, trying out pottery and sculpting, but I later found out I was pretty mediocre at it. My reserved nature did little to help either. Soon enough, I was reduced to simply being the “middle child.” At home and outside, I felt seemingly shunned for not being a “somebody.” 

But then you came, Dani. I can still recall the moment you entered the crowded lounge, cradling books in your arm as you looked for a vacant seat. You didn’t see any, so you approached me and asked if I didn’t mind you sitting with me.

You were one of the kindest people I’ve met. The school called you the “popular geek” but you didn’t care about labels, unlike me. At first, I barely noticed you, then got annoyed once you started asking me questions about my life, trying to spark a conversation between us. You even christened me with a new nickname—instead of going with Rach, you called me “Chelle” (and I’ve been using it ever since). 

But looking back now, those are one of the moments I cherish. I wish I had been more enthusiastic during those first few days of us meeting. 

Then the weeks turned into months, with us just spending time together in the student lounge after class. You freely talked about your life while I only shared bits and pieces of mine. We barely hung out outside that place as you were a year older than me, and you had your own life to figure out as a senior. 

But do you remember that tufting workshop we attended one weekend? I loved that day—I still keep our photo of it in my wallet. You held my hand as I tried to maneuver the tufting gun on the stretched pattern. We even exchanged our tufted rugs, as yours now live in my bedroom, on the floor beside my bed.

You were also there when Grandpa passed away. You hugged me for what seemed like forever, as I cried into your shoulders. You knew how close I was with him, as I felt he was the only one in the family who saw me for who I was.

That is why I’m here to tell you, Dani, that your life is not some cliché sitcom writers conjured up before a table read. You changed my life—and I mean it with all my heart when I say it. And I know you’ll also change many more lives once you enter college. 

Thank you for loving me for who I am, and for caring even about the littlest things in my life. You don’t know how it means the world to me. 

Please promise to keep in touch with me while you’re away. I’ll really, really miss you, and your rants about that jock who was a try-hard at impressing you, and stories about your childhood in the countryside. While I’m here, now in my senior year, I’ll do my best to be better. 

Once again, thank you—for everything. 

Lots of love,

The Invisible Girl

Chelle 

P.S. I hope you didn’t cheat and read this before arriving at your new dorm room! But regardless, if you read this, give me a call.