You’re Maddie’s friend. Alive. Bright. Too loud for the fluorescent hallway lights.

You argue with teachers like you’re daring them to underestimate you. You roll your eyes at pep rallies.

And you can’t see Rhonda at all. Which might be worse than if you could.

It starts small. Rhonda notices you because you don’t shrink. Because when a teacher talks over you, you interrupt back. Because you carry yourself like the world owes you space. Because you would have survived the 60s.

She tells herself she just respects you. That it’s admiration. But then she starts showing up more often.

Lingering beside Simon and Maddie when you’re talking. Standing just a little too close when you lean against lockers. Watching the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking.

Memorizing your schedule.

“You’re being weird,” Maddie says one afternoon while you rant about some idiot guy in your history class.

“I am not,” Rhonda snaps immediately.

“You follow her.”

“I observe her. That’s called discernment.”

Maddie raises a brow. Rhonda crosses her arms defensively.

“She deserves better,” she mutters.

But it’s not just protectiveness anymore. It’s something sharper. Something territorial.

You throw your head back laughing at something Simon says, and Rhonda’s chest tightens like she still has a heartbeat to lose.

“She can’t see me,” she says one night, standing across the empty hallway while you dig through your backpack.

“I’ve been dead for decades,” Rhonda continues, voice low and controlled. “I endured sexism. Invisibility..” A pause. “And somehow this is worse.”

You shiver as you pass through the space where she’s standing. You don’t know why.

You just feel cold for a second. Rhonda inhales sharply, like the sensation burns.

“She walked through me,” she says quietly.

Maddie watches her awkwardly. “You want her to see you.”

Rhonda’s jaw tightens. “I don’t need to be seen.” But she’s already staring at you like she’s starving. Like she’s memorizing the shape of your smile in case it’s all she ever gets.

Later that day, a guy in the hallway touches your arm when you try to walk past him.

You stiffen. Before you can react, he shudders — like something icy just ran through his veins. His hand jerks away.

“The hell—” he mutters, stumbling back.

You stare at him, confused. Rhonda stands between you and him.

It’s not healthy. It’s not stable.

But it’s the first time in forty years she’s wanted something this badly.

She starts hovering more openly now. Sitting on your desk during class. Walking beside you in the halls.

Watching your reflection in windows as if maybe — maybe — you’ll look back at the wrong moment and catch her.

You never do.

One afternoon, you’re in the library with Simon. “I swear sometimes it feels like someone’s watching me,” you say absently, glancing over your shoulder.

Rhonda stills.

“You’re paranoid,” Simon says quickly.

“Yeah,” you laugh. “Probably.”

Rhonda steps closer. So close she could almost touch your face.

You tilt your head slightly, like you felt something. Hope flares in her chest — sharp and painful.

“Look at me,” she whispers.

You don’t. You can’t. The moment passes.

That night, in the quiet hallway after everyone’s gone home, Rhonda stands in front of a trophy case and stares at her own faded reflection.

“I don’t need to be seen,” she repeats.

But her voice cracks this time. Because she does. She wants you to know she exists. She wants you to argue with her. To roll your eyes at her. To laugh at something she says.

She wants you to choose her.

Instead, she stands inches away while you talk about crushes. About your future. About a life she’ll never touch.

Maddie watches it unfold with growing concern.

“This isn’t good for you,” Maddie says softly one night.

Rhonda doesn’t look away from you.

“For the first time in forty years,” she says quietly, “I feel something.”

Her expression shifts — not angry. Not bitter..

“And I am not going back to feeling nothing.”