The poetry competition flyer is taped to the bulletin board.

Lin Mei sees it first. She is walking Little Mei to class, a habit that has become something else, something that neither of them has named, something that exists in the space between friendship and family and the impossible bond of being the same person twice.

She stops in front of the board.

"What?" Little Mei asks.

"This," Lin Mei says. She points to the flyer. "You should enter."

Little Mei looks at the flyer. Her eyes scan the words. Poetry Competition. Open to all students. First prize: publication in the school literary magazine. A chance to be seen. A chance to be heard. A chance to matter.

"No," Little Mei says. Her voice is small. Her voice is certain. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because." Little Mei looks at the floor. She looks at her shoes. She looks at everything except the flyer. "Because I'm not good enough. Because people will laugh. Because."

"Because you're afraid," Lin Mei says. "Because being seen means being judged. Because putting your words out there means letting people inside your head. Because hope is terrifying and you would rather be invisible than be disappointed."

Little Mei is quiet. The hallway is quiet. The world is quiet.

"Yes," she says. "All of that."

"I know," Lin Mei says. "I know because I felt all of that. I felt it every day of my life. I felt it when I hid my poems. I felt it when I ate lunch alone. I felt it when I walked through the world like a ghost, convinced that I was nothing, that I would never be anything, that the best I could hope for was to survive."

"And you were wrong," Little Mei says.

"I was wrong," Lin Mei agrees. "But I didn't know I was wrong. I died not knowing I was wrong. I died thinking that my poems were stupid and my dreams were pointless and my life didn't matter. And I was wrong. I was so wrong. And I don't want you to die wrong."

Little Mei looks at the flyer. She touches the edge of the paper. Her fingers are shaking.

"What if they hate it?" she asks.

"What if they love it?" Lin Mei asks back.

"What if I'm not ready?"

"What if you are?"

Little Mei is quiet. The hallway fills with students. Laughing. Shouting. Living. They pass around the two girls who are standing in front of the bulletin board, staring at a flyer like it holds the answer to everything.

"What if I do it and nothing changes?" Little Mei asks. "What if I do it and I'm still invisible? What if I do it and no one cares?"

"Then you'll know," Lin Mei says. "You'll know that you tried. That you were brave. That you put your words into the world and let them breathe. And that matters. That matters more than any prize. More than any publication. More than any applause."

"Does it?" Little Mei asks. "Does it really matter if no one sees it?"

"It matters because you see it," Lin Mei says. "It matters because you wrote it. It matters because it exists, and it exists because you made it exist, and that is the most powerful thing any person can do. To create something from nothing. To make beauty out of pain. To say: I was here. I felt this."

Little Mei looks at her. Her eyes are brown. The same brown as the earth. The same brown as hope.

"When is it?" she asks.

"Next Friday," Lin Mei says. "You have a week."

"A week," Little Mei repeats. "To write something worth reading."

"You already have something worth reading," Lin Mei says. "You have a notebook full of poems that are better than anything I've ever read. And I've read a lot. I've had twenty-six years to read."

Little Mei almost smiles. It is not a real smile. But it is closer than before.

"Okay," she says. "I'll do it. But you have to help me."

"I'll help you," Lin Mei says. "But I won't write it for you. This has to be yours. Every word. Every line. Every tear."

"Every tear?"

"Every tear," Lin Mei says. "The best poems are written in tears."

---

The week passes like water.

Little Mei writes. She writes in the morning, before school. She writes at lunch, ignoring her food. She writes at night, after her mother falls asleep, by the light of a streetlamp that filters through the window.

She writes about the factory smoke. She writes about the peanut butter jar. She writes about the scar on her knee that is shaped like a crescent moon. She writes about the girl who sits across from her at lunch and cries when she thinks no one is watching.

She writes about fear. She writes about hope. She writes about the impossible space between what was and what could be.

Lin Mei reads every draft. She doesn't edit. She doesn't change. She just reads. And sometimes, she cries.

"This is good," she says. "This is better than good. This is true."

"True is scary," Little Mei says.

"True is everything," Lin Mei says. "True is the only thing that matters."

---

Friday arrives.

The auditorium is full. Students sit in rows. Teachers stand at the back. Wang Fang is in the front row, surrounded by her planets, her face a careful mask of indifference.

Little Mei is backstage. Her hands are shaking. Her stomach is twisting. Her heart is hammering against her ribs.

"I can't do this," she says. "I can't. I'm going to be sick."

"You can do this," Lin Mei says. She is standing behind her, hands on her shoulders, grounding her, holding her. "You have done harder things. You have survived worse things. You have lived through every day of a life that tried to break you, and you are still here. Still standing. Still fighting. This is just words. Just words on a page. And they are your words. And they are beautiful."

"What if I forget?" Little Mei asks. "What if I freeze? What if."

"Then I'll be there," Lin Mei says. "In the audience. Right in the front. And if you forget, you look at me. And I'll remind you. I'll mouth the words. I'll be your memory. I'll be your courage. I'll be whatever you need."

"Why?" Little Mei asks. "Why are you doing all this?"

"Because you matter," Lin Mei says. "Because your words matter. Because the world needs to hear what you have to say. And because I love you. I love you in a way that doesn't make sense, in a way that crosses time and space and life and death. I love you because you are me, and I am you, and we are the same person trying to save each other."

Little Mei turns. She looks at Lin Mei. Really looks at her.

"I love you too," she says. "Even though you're crazy. Even though this is impossible. Even though I still don't understand. I love you."

"Then go," Lin Mei says. "Go and show them who you are."

---

Little Mei walks onto the stage.

The lights are bright. The audience is quiet. The world is watching.

She stands at the microphone. She looks at the paper in her hands. She looks at the words she has written. She looks at the truth she has dared to tell.

Then she looks up. She looks at the front row. She looks at Lin Mei.

Lin Mei smiles. It is a real smile. A proud smile. A smile that says: you are enough. You have always been enough.

Little Mei takes a breath. She begins to read.

"I am invisible," she says. "I have been invisible for sixteen years. I have walked through hallways like a ghost. I have eaten lunch alone. I have written poems that no one reads and dreamed dreams that no one sees. I have been nothing. I have been nobody. I have been a waste of space and air and life."

The audience is quiet. The auditorium is quiet. The world is quiet.

"And then someone saw me," she continues. "Someone who shouldn't exist. Someone who knows my fears and my dreams and my poems. Someone who looks at me and sees not what I am, but what I could be. Someone who believes in me when I don't believe in myself."

She looks at Lin Mei. Her eyes are wet. Her voice is steady.

"This poem is for her. For the person who taught me that invisible is not the same as unimportant. That quiet is not the same as weak. That being seen is not about being perfect. It's about being real."

She takes a breath. She reads the poem.

It is about a girl who writes in the dark. It is about a jar that holds pickles and memories. It is about a scar shaped like the moon. It is about hope, fragile and fierce and impossible to kill.

When she finishes, the auditorium is silent. For three seconds. For five. For ten.

Then someone claps. One person. Two. Ten. The whole room.

Little Mei stands on the stage, tears streaming down her face, and for the first time in her life, she is not invisible.

She is seen.