It was the first day working with my new mentor, Jasmine, and one other teammate, Erika. The co-working space stretched out wide and impersonal, long brown tables stark against their grey surroundings. We sat on the second floor, though it didn't stretch across the whole building. Half of it was open, a balcony-like space where we could peak down into the floor below. It was cozier down there with couches, more co-working desks and a ping pong table. 
Not feeling quite friendly enough to sit next to either of them yet, I chose to sit beside Erika with one chair between us. "This feels safe enough," I thought to myself. The chairs bumped, rattling like thin shells of plastic – the seating felt too tight. 
Every expectation I had for this team—and our friendship—crashed immediately. Suddenly, I was in two worlds at once: the real one, and an invisible one decoding how I could fit in. Like a neural implant humming in my temple, I tracked every microglance, every twitch of a hand, every pause between words, sorting them in real time. This invisible world wasn't new – it had begun the first time my sister told me I was a bad sister and had grown more persistent with every moment I was excluded by her.  
Now, the invisible world throbbed under my skin, fueled by old memories. 
Age nine. Thursday afternoon, backpack still half-zipped on the carpet. I hovered by her bedroom door, the glow of the sun setting through her window and spilling through the crack. Inside, my sister and her friend danced for the tiny red light of a camera, their giggles syncing like a secret language. I pressed my nails into my palms, aching inside. She spotted me and growled, "Go away!" 
Pain no one else could see coursed through me. And yet, here I was again as an adult, that same quiet vigilance thrumming under my skin, screaming silently: "These two already know each other. You're a third wheel. Easily rejectable." 
Once Erika went home, it was just me and Jasmine. She looked at me intently. "Violet, are you alright? How has the start of our mentorship been for you?" she asked, piercing my heart. I had been too silent, too lost in my own thoughts. 
"I'm okay," I said, raw, as something cracked inside me — my wall. She had that way of looking at me, her empathy like a superpower making my inner world malfunction. "Well, I guess that's not entirely true," I admitted, knowing my invisible world wouldn't stay hidden for much longer. 
Jasmine was powerful. She could tear down walls in an instant. One look. One word. One touch. My hidden world trembled, aware of her presence. She sighed, yet spoke with confidence, "I wanted to say sorry for the other day. During our one-on-one, I didn't meet your heart." She was right.  
An inner "may-day, may-day!" erupted. I didn't want to relive the conversation where Jasmine had basically told me, "I'm going to be your mentor this year, not your friend."  
 
My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. "No, that's not it," I breathed, my gaze dropping to the floor. "I've just felt lonely lately. This Summer was hard, and it was difficult to connect with friends. Being here, with a new team, sometimes triggers feelings of rejection." Darn her supernatural abilities – I didn't even know I felt this. 
After wiping four or five tears from under my eyes, we smiled at each other. For a moment, I didn't feel like such a burden. My brokenness had bonded us — even if just slightly. Emphasis on slight, because as soon as we hugged and walked away, I turned to see her hugging another teammate.  
The hidden world throbbed in my temple again. It could only stay silent for so long. This time it hissed: "She's going to complain about you. How you're such a pain and how this is going to be an incredibly long year having to mentor you. You're already bothering her, and it's only week one." 
Heat slammed into me the moment I stepped outside, the kind that clung to my lungs and made every breath shallow. "This is going to be a long walk home," I sighed. My sneakers slapped against the concrete as I walked through the parking lot, each step teetering between the real world and my invisible one, where lies dripped in and sweat stung my eyes. 
Back at home, the cool air finally soothed me. I set down my backpack and made my way to the couch. My mind was back in the real world — until a striking text from my mother appeared on my phone: "You and I are so close to her (my sister) so she can be distant to us at times. You are an amazing sister, but don't count on her for close friendship; let it happen in the right timing. I believe it will." 
The invisible world started up again, ensuring the only part my mind clung to was: "Don't count on your sister to be your friend." However, the decoder twisted it further: "No one wants to be your friend. Not your mentor. Not your sister. No one." 
I burst out crying. Arguing back, I thought: "I have my husband — he's my friend." 
"Yes," the decoder whispered, "but he's also the one friend who has hurt you most. Is it really worth it? Is life worth it when you have no one to count on?" 
Tears attacked my eyes, I couldn't see. My throat let out an uncontrollable wail. I clutched the couch cushions like a lifeline. My lower lip quivered as I fought off the lie, but it begged me to believe it. The lie had me by the throat, the room was disappearing and I realized I was suffocating. 
This invisible world was not real. In almost twenty-nine years of life, I had watched it vanish as quickly as it appeared — thousands of times. So I continued to fight back, texting the raw, honest truth to my mom: "Your message made me burst out crying. Everyone is telling me I can't expect a friendship from them. I feel like I have no one..." 
Her reply popped up on my screen, the words wrapping around me like a warm blanket. I could almost feel her fingers combing through my hair, steadying me as the lie loosened its grip.  
My need for raw, honest, and authentic communication felt like my own personal superpower — one that may someday demolish the invisible world, hopefully forever.