The playground was loud with children laughing, shouting, and running in every direction. Mina stayed near the edge, watching quietly, as she often did. She noticed a fight brewing between two of her friends over a misplaced notebook. Her first instinct was to intervene.
"Hey, it's okay!" she said gently, stepping between them. "Let's figure this out together."
But before they could calm down, another girl shouted at her. "You don't understand! You'll never understand! You don't even have a heart!"
Mina froze, her chest tightening. Again? she thought. She had heard these words so many times, from classmates, from strangers, from people who couldn't see the weight she carried.
She wanted to shout, to tell them everything — about her tiny room, her brothers, the nights she cried alone, the days she had to be strong. But she didn't. Instead, she took a deep breath, stepped back, and whispered, "It's okay. We can fix this."
Her friends glanced at her, confused but relieved, and slowly began to calm down. Mina smiled faintly, feeling the familiar mix of pride and exhaustion. Helping others always came first, even when no one noticed.
Later, in the classroom, Mina's points were checked again. She had gained two more, bringing her total to 21. Still far from forty. She raised her hand, hoping to answer another question, but Mrs. Hartley ignored her once more. Mina bit her lip, forcing herself to stay calm.
Walking home with Taro, she shared a small smile. "I helped them today," she said quietly.
Taro nodded. "You always do."
Mina wanted to tell him how much it hurt to be misunderstood, to be judged for things no one could see. But instead, she just leaned on her brother and let the cold air brush against her face.
Even when the world was unfair, Mina reminded herself, she could still be the person who cared, who helped, who understood. That strength, even unseen, was hers.