I didn't want it to become something loud.
But Aron, in his gentle persistence, asked if he could show the book to a few people — people who, he said, "needed to feel seen without being looked at."
I said yes.
Not because I wanted attention. But because maybe… if someone was carrying the same quiet ache, this would sit with them for a while. The way it once sat with me.
He printed ten copies.
Not glossy. Not mass-produced.
Just ten quiet books passed hand to hand. No price. No author name.
A story that traveled through whispers.
Weeks passed.
Now and then, an email would arrive — brief, sincere, always from someone I didn't know.
"I found myself on page sixteen.""How did you draw what I couldn't explain?""Thank you for not rushing anything."
I never replied with more than a line or two. But each message stayed with me — like notes tucked into a wall, prayers no one expected to be answered.
One evening, I found a letter slid beneath my door.
Handwritten. Neat. Unfamiliar script.
It read:
"I don't know who she was, but I've felt like her all my life. I sat on a bench last week, hoping someone would notice me the way you noticed her. Your book made me feel less invisible."
No name.
Just that.
I folded it gently and kept it in the back cover of the book.
It was no longer just my story.
It belonged to those who needed to remember they were seen — even if only in passing.