But for a moment, everything went dark. Slowly the world in my vision got smaller and smaller like I was in a tunnel going backward. The light ahead of me—Masen, Mr. Foster, the other students—became tiny as the darkness ate up the room, and I felt completely alone.

Just like before.

“Alright, everyone!” Ms. Wilkens, my fourth grade teacher, calls as we line up at the door inside the classroom. “If you’re staying in for recess, there’s no talking. You’re working.” Then she looks up to us. “The rest of you…walk, please.”

The line leader pushes through the door and everyone bolts, running outside to the playground. Some students dash for the tetherballs, others for the bars, and some stroll around the blacktop, figuring out what they want to do.

Everyone passes me by, and I slow to a walk, fidgeting and watching them as they find their groups and begin playing. The sun is hot, and I slowly step into the chaos, looking around and not sure where to go or who to talk to.

This happens every day.

Girls run up to other girls, smiling and talking. Boys play with other boys, tossing balls back and forth and climbing the equipment. Some of my classmates sit on the grass and play with little things they snuck into school, and everyone has found each other, pairing off.

But no one’s looking for me.

I shuffle my feet, feeling my stomach twist into knots. I hate recess. I should’ve just stayed in the classroom and colored or wrote in my journal or something.

I want them to know I’m here, though. I want them to see me.

I don’t like being forgotten.

I look over at Shannon Bell and a few other girls from class, their hair and clothes always so cool and pretty. Why can’t I ever look like that? I run my hands down my knee-length skirt and Polo shirt, looking like such a good girl. My mom always pulls my hair back in a ponytail, but I want to curl it like them.

I lick my lips, swallow the big lump in my throat, and walk over to them.

“Hi,” I say, feeling like I can’t breathe.

They stop talking and look at me, not smiling. I gesture to Shannon’s hand. “I like your nail polish.”

Actually, I don’t. Yellow grosses me out, but my mom said complimenting people is a good way to make friends, so…

Shannon lets out a little scoff, looking embarrassed that her friends see me talking to her. She shoots a look to them.

I feel an invisible hand pushing me away from them. They want me gone, don’t they?

But I force a smile and try harder. “Hey,” I tell another girl, seeing her Mary Janes. “We have the same shoes.” And I look down at mine, showing her.

She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Ew.”

“You guys,” another girl chides her friends, but they don’t stop laughing.

“What’s that?” Shannon points to the bulge in the pocket of my skirt.

My heart sinks a little. No one else in my class has an inhaler, and now it makes me even more different. “It’s just my inhaler,” I reply, speaking low. “I have allergies and asthma and stuff. It’s no big deal.”

I keep my eyes down, because I don’t want to see the looks they give each other. I twist my lips to the side, feeling tears creep up. Why can’t I be cool?

“So do you think Cory Schultz is cute?” Shannon speaks up.

I blink, my guard going up. “No,” I answer quickly.

Cory Shultz is in our class, and he’s really cute, but I don’t want anyone to know I think that.

“Well, I think he’s cute,” she says. “We all do. You got a problem with him?”

I look up, shaking my head. “No. I just…yeah, I guess he’s kind of cute.”

A girl behind Shannon breaks into laughter, and Shannon suddenly walks away, toward the basketball court.

My heart starts racing. She walks up to Cory and whispers something in his ear, and he turns to look at me, scrunching up his face in disgust.

No.

Everyone starts laughing, and I turn and run away, hearing behind me, “Ryen likes Cory. Ryen likes Cory.”

I start crying, tears streaming down my face and shaking with sobs. I run behind the wall of the building and hide myself as I break down.

“What’s wrong with you now?” my sister, who’s in fifth grade, asks as she charges over to my side. She must’ve seen me running away.

“Nothing,” I cry. “Just go.”

She growls under her breath, sounding mad at me. “Just find some friends, so I can play with mine, and Mom stops making me play with you. Can’t you do that?”

I cry harder as she storms away. She’s embarrassed by me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I dry my tears and walk to my classroom. I’m sure my face is all red, but I can just hide behind my folders and put my head down on my desk.

I quietly step into the classroom, seeing a few students sitting at their desks who wanted to get work on their projects done, while Ms. Wilkens sits at her computer with her back to me. I slide into my desk and take out two folders, standing them up to make a fence around me. I put my head down and hide.

“Wanna help me?” a voice says.

I look to my right and see Delilah working on a piece of butcher paper on the floor. She holds out a marker, her fingernails dirty and her blonde bangs hanging in her eyes. She always stays in for recess. Unlike me, she stopped trying to fit in a long time ago.

I take the marker, coming down to the floor with her.

“Thanks,” I say, looking at her hand-drawn Eiffel Tower that’s almost as tall as me.