Brown sugar

I was ten the first time I realized I wasn’t the girl people looked at twice.

Not on the street. Not in the classroom.

Not even at weddings where glittering cousins in backless blouses danced like they belonged to the moonlight.

I was the girl standing by the dessert table, napkin clutched in one hand, pretending I didn’t care.

My skin was too dusky.

My body too soft.

My laugh too loud—until I learned to quiet it.

Until I learned to shrink, to make space for everyone else’s sparkle.

And I watched.

Watched my sisters glow like firecrackers in satin.

Watched my best friend collect glances like compliments.

Watched love flutter past me like a bird too fast, too wild, too sure I’d never keep up.

I told myself I didn’t need it.

I had books. I had numbers. I had dreams that didn’t rely on someone else's heartbeat.

And maybe that was enough.

But even the quietest girls dream of being wanted.

Even the ones who pretend not to hope.

So when it finally happened—

That look, that moment, that pause—

It felt like standing in the sun for the first time after years of rain.

Terrifying.

Beautiful.

Unforgiving.

Because when you spend your whole life being invisible,

Being seen is the most dangerous thing of all.

---

—despite it all—

I find myself standing at the threshold of something new,

Excited for the first day of college.

Excited to meet new people.

Excited, maybe, to finally be seen.