Rylan Muller sat alone on the bleachers, staring at the empty football field as the rain drizzled down. He pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, the fabric damp from the mist. The chill seeped into his bones, but he didn’t move. The gray clouds above mirrored the storm inside him—heavy, unrelenting.

At 18, Rylan had learned to live with pain. Not just the physical pain from his albinism—his constant battle with sunburns and the harsh sensitivity of his skin—but the deeper pain, the one that left scars no one could see.

He still remembered that summer afternoon, the laughter of the other kids as they tied him up under the blazing sun, ignoring his pleas. His skin had blistered, seared by the heat, while they watched and jeered. “Let’s see how the ghost boy survives this!” they’d shouted. Even now, the memory brought a sting to his eyes and a knot to his stomach.

And then there were the beatings. They came when the bullies felt particularly cruel, their fists flying as they hurled insults. "Freak," they’d call him. "Albino trash." The bruises faded, but their words never did.

Rylan let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging. He hated this life—hated the way people looked at him, hated how different he was. All he wanted was to be normal. To have friends who invited him to hang out after school. To know what it felt like to hold someone’s hand without worrying they’d pull away in disgust.

But it felt impossible. Every time he tried to reach out, he saw the judgment in their eyes. The whispers behind his back. The laughter. It was easier to stay quiet, to stay invisible.

Rylan wiped at his eyes, frustrated with himself. Crying wouldn’t change anything. He should be used to this by now.

The rain grew heavier, and Rylan finally stood, his movements sluggish. He stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets and walked toward the parking lot. His reflection in a puddle caught his eye—the pale hair, the translucent skin. A stranger stared back at him.. why can’t I be normal?