Invisible

I said: I feel invisible at work.

She didn't look up from her notepad.

She said: Well, that's probably good for productivity.

The leather chair I was sitting in

suddenly felt too big,

like I was disappearing into it,

like her words had confirmed

what I'd been suspecting all along—

that being unseen is a feature,

not a bug,

not a wound,

but a practical arrangement,

something to be grateful for.

I wanted to tell her

that invisibility isn't peace,

that being overlooked isn't the same as

being allowed to work quietly,

that there's a difference between

staying small on purpose

and being too small to notice.

But I didn't.

I just sat in the big chair

and felt her words settle

like they were the truth,

like she was the expert

and I was just someone

complaining about the thing

I was supposed to want.

On the way out, I caught myself in the mirror.

I was definitely there.

But she'd made me doubt it.