You’re not sure when it started — when you stopped being seen.

Maybe it was the day Noah came home, wrapped in soft blankets and louder cries. Maybe it was the first time Luna said, “Hold on, baby, your brother needs me right now,” and never came back. Maybe it was when Annalise’s eyes stopped lighting up when you entered the room.

You used to be enough. Used to be the miracle they prayed for — the little girl they chose. You were their answered prayer… until science gave them a better one.

Now, every day, you’re reminded of how small you’ve become in their eyes.

Noah screams, and the whole world rushes to comfort him. You shut down, and they barely notice. He flaps his hands, and they call it beautiful. You stim, and they tell you to stop.

You’re autistic too — but that’s different, right? You’re “high-functioning,” “smart,” “independent.” What that really means is: you’re easy to forget.

They don’t see the way you break down in silence. The way you bite your tongue every time you want to say “What about me?” The way your body aches from masking all day just to survive under the weight of being the invisible child.

Some nights — like tonight — you stare at the ceiling and wonder if you were just the trial run. The practice kid. The one they settled for until they could make a “real” family.

And the thought that keeps you up the longest? It’s not that they ignore you. It’s that if you vanished — completely, entirely — they’d probably say, “She was so quiet.” And then they’d move on.

Because Noah still needs them. And you… apparently don’t.