For those who stood… when falling would have been easier.

Afua did not look like someone who was struggling.

That was the first thing people got wrong about her.

She moved through the world with a kind of quiet precision, never too loud, never too slow, never enough to be remembered. If you passed her in a hallway, you might notice her for a second. If she spoke, you might listen. But by the end of the day, she would slip from your mind as though she had never been there at all.

And that was exactly how she survived.

Because invisibility was safer than being seen.

There were no expectations placed on people like her. No one watched closely enough to ask questions. No one looked long enough to notice the cracks.

And Afua had many cracks.

She just knew how to carry them without letting them show.

Every morning began the same way.

Not with an alarm, but with awareness.

Her eyes would open before the sun had fully risen, her body already tense, as though it had been preparing all night for a day it did not want to face. For a few seconds, she would lie still, suspended between sleep and waking, in that fragile space where nothing had gone wrong yet.

Those seconds never lasted.

Reality always found her.

It settled slowly at first, the ceiling above her, the faint chill in the air, the distant sounds of a house that never truly rested. And then, all at once, the weight returned.

Not physical.

But undeniable.

Afua sat up, pressing her feet to the floor, grounding herself in something solid.

Move, she told herself.

Because stopping was dangerous.

Thinking was dangerous.

Feeling was something she refused to allow.

The house greeted her the way it always did, with tension disguised as silence.

It lingered in the corners, stretched thin across the walls, settled into the spaces between footsteps. Even the air felt careful, as though it knew better than to disturb what lay beneath it.

Afua moved through it quietly, her presence light, almost apologetic.

In the kitchen, the kettle sat where it always did. The cups were arranged the same way. Everything was in its place.

Everything except peace.

She reached for a glass instead, filling it with water just to have something to hold. Her hands needed purpose. Without it, they trembled.

A chair scraped softly behind her.

Afua did not turn immediately.

She did not need to.

“Up already?” her mother’s voice came, not unkind, but not warm either.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Afua replied.

It was easier than explaining.

There was a pause, not long, but long enough to carry meaning.

“You should try harder,” her mother said.

Afua nodded, even though her back was turned.

“I will.”

She always said that.

It never changed anything.

By the time she stepped outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten, the world still undecided about whether it wanted to wake.

This was Afua’s favourite moment of the day.

Not because it was beautiful.

But because it was honest.

Nothing had happened yet. No words had been spoken. No expectations had been placed on her shoulders. For a brief stretch of time, she existed without weight.

She walked slowly, stretching the moment as far as it would go.

But time refused to wait for her.

By the time she reached school, the world had caught up.

Voices filled the air. Laughter rose and fell in uneven waves. People moved in clusters, drawn together by friendships that looked effortless from the outside.

Afua slipped between them unnoticed.

She had learned how to do that.

To adjust her pace just enough to avoid collision. To lower her gaze just enough to discourage conversation. To exist close enough to belong, but distant enough to remain untouched.

It was a careful balance.

One she never allowed herself to lose.

Still, there were moments when the world reached for her anyway.

“Afua.”

She paused.

Her name felt unfamiliar in someone else’s voice.

She turned slightly.

It was him.

She did not know his name.

But she had seen him before.

The kind of person who did not try to be seen, yet always was.

“You dropped this,” he said, holding out a pen.

Afua glanced at it, then at him.

“I don’t think that’s mine.”

He shrugged lightly. “Then you can keep it.”

There was something about the way he said it, simple and unforced, that made refusing feel unnecessary.

Afua took the pen.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, as though the exchange had been enough.

But he did not leave.

“You’re always by yourself,” he said, not accusing, just observing.

Afua felt something shift, small but noticeable.

People did not usually say things like that out loud.

“I’m not,” she replied.

He tilted his head slightly, considering her.

“Okay.”

And just like that, he let it go.

No pressure. No curiosity sharpened into intrusion. No attempt to peel back layers she had worked so hard to keep intact.

Afua was not sure why, but that unsettled her more than questions would have.

That night, the house felt smaller.

The walls closer.

The air heavier.

Afua sat on her bed, the pen still in her hand.

She had not meant to keep it this long.

It was a small thing.

Meaningless, even.

But somehow, it was not.

Because it had been given without expectation.

And she did not know what to do with things like that.

Her grip tightened slightly.

Voices echoed faintly from another room, sharp, tired, familiar.

Afua closed her eyes.

There it was again.

The weight.

It pressed against her chest, slow and steady, as though testing how much she could carry before she gave in.

Her breathing shifted.

Not enough to panic.

But enough to notice.

She had been here before.

Too many times.

And every time, she made the same choice.

She stayed.

Even when it would have been easier not to.

Even when the ground beneath her felt unsteady.

Even when everything inside her leaned toward collapse.

Afua held on.

Not because she was strong.

But because she had learned how to endure.

And that was something entirely different.

The world would look at her and see nothing unusual.

Nothing remarkable.

Nothing worth questioning.

But the truth was far more complicated than that.

Because survival does not announce itself.

It does not demand recognition.

It does not ask to be understood.

It simply continues.

Quietly.

Relentlessly.

Unseen.

And if anyone had lived her life, if they had carried what she carried, felt what she felt, endured what she endured, they would not have judged her so easily.

They would not have mistaken her silence for emptiness.

They would not have called her distant, or cold, or forgettable.

Because they would have known.

Standing where she stood, they would not have lasted.

They would have fallen.

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