Every morning before school, Mason stood in front of the mirror and winced. Not because he was brushing his teeth too hard or his bedhead was worse than usual, but because he was convinced that what stared back at him was unbearable. His solution was simple: avoid being seen altogether.

Today, like every day for the past three years, Mason tugged the hood of his oversized sweatshirt low over his forehead, pulled a scarf up to his nose, and slid on a pair of mirrored sunglasses that made him look like a bug. Other days it was a bandana, or a paper bag with carefully cut-out eye holes. He’d rotate the disguises like armor, each one a flimsy shield against the world.

People whispered. Some laughed. A few teachers had gently asked him why—but Mason never answered. Not really. Because how do you explain that every glimpse of yourself feels like a punch? That you’re sure people are just being polite when they don't flinch?

No one knew what Mason actually looked like. And Mason liked it that way—until the day someone else started wearing a bag too.