There's something magical about fairy lights strung across trees, music echoing from old speakers, and the scent of popcorn and cotton candy dancing in the breeze.
It was Talent Night on campus—and somehow, all three of us got roped in.
Well, not exactly "roped." Sophie volunteered before the poster was even fully taped to the wall.
James signed up because his basketball friends dared him to perform an acoustic version of a Drake song.
And me?
Let's just say, peer pressure is real.
"You're doing poetry," Sophie said, stuffing a form into my hand like it was a love letter. "You're brilliant. End of story."
The days leading up to the event were chaotic.
Sophie was working on an emotional spoken-word piece.
James had turned his rap cover into an acoustic mashup.
And I… well, I had major stage fright.
"I'm going to die," I muttered while scribbling ideas in my notebook.
"You're going to slay," Sophie replied. "It's like death, but better."
James looked up from tuning his guitar. "I'd offer moral support, but I have the coordination of a potato when it comes to poetry."
"I'll take it," I smiled.
For once, it felt like we were us again.
The trio.
The campus courtyard had transformed.
The air buzzed with energy. Booths were lined up with student artwork, homemade cupcakes, and clubs advertising bake sales and fundraisers.
Sophie looked like a punk rock poet queen in leather pants and glitter eyeliner.
James was wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, trying to stay low-key—but failing. Girls were whispering, eyes following him.
And me?
I wore a long midnight-blue dress with silver threads like stardust and tied my hair up. I felt confident. Nervous, but strong.
We stood backstage, the three of us, listening to applause echo across the courtyard.
Sophie's name was called first.
She walked up to the mic, lights warming her skin, and delivered a raw, emotional poem about dreams and fear and home.
By the time she was done, half the audience was teary-eyed. I was one of them.
She bowed, beaming. James and I hugged her when she came back.
"Y'all better clap like your lives depend on it when Charlotte goes up," she grinned.
Next came James.
He sat on a stool under the lights, holding his guitar like he was born with it.
"I'm not a singer," he said into the mic, "but tonight's about stepping out of comfort zones. This one's for someone who made me realize how important it is to be seen."
My heart skipped.
He played a soft acoustic cover of "Find Someone Like You" by Snoh Aalegra, mixed with an original verse about identity, change, and feeling invisible.
Everyone was silent.
It was hauntingly beautiful.
He didn't look at the crowd when he finished.
He looked straight at me.
Then it was my turn.
Hands shaking, knees ready to abandon me, I walked up and held the mic.
I spoke a poem titled "Once Invisible"—yes, the same as this story. It was about growing up quiet, feeling overlooked, and finding your own voice through pain and persistence.
I spoke to the stars above me, to the people who never saw me, and to the ones who finally did.
When I finished, the applause was loud. But it was the two people at the front—Sophie, who wiped her eyes, and James, who stood up to clap—that meant everything.
We stayed long after the performances ended, sitting on the grass, legs crossed, sharing stories and leftover cookies from a fundraiser table.
"I can't believe we did that," I said.
"I can't believe you didn't faint," Sophie teased.
"I almost did," I admitted.
James leaned back on his elbows. "Next year, we perform as a group. One act. We'll be legends."
"Poetic rappers with eyeliner," Sophie said. "I'm in."
I looked at them—my real friends—and smiled.
"I'm not invisible anymore."
That night, under strings of light and laughter, I realized something.
Visibility wasn't just about being seen by others.
It was about seeing yourself—and letting the right people in.