I have perfected the art of not being noticed.

Not invisible — that would require absence. I’m very present. I answer questions. I hand in work early. I hold doors open. I say thank you in the right tone. Teachers describe me as “reliable,” which is the academic equivalent of beige.

It’s strategic.

At St Anne’s, attention is a currency you can’t afford to mismanage. Some girls spend it lavishly. Some inherit it. I budget mine.

Julian says I overthink it.

He doesn’t understand that he can afford not to. We’re both here on scholarships, but he moves through this place like he’s trying to prove something. Like every room is a debate he might win if he pushes hard enough. I move through it like a test I intend to pass.

Our house is small enough that silence feels communal.

When Mum got sick, the walls started listening. That’s how it felt. Every conversation slightly lowered, every laugh slightly delayed, as if we were all waiting for permission. Julian reacted by getting louder. Smarter. Sharper. I reacted by getting efficient. Forms filled out. Medication times memorised. Dad’s face monitored for cracks. At school, that translates well. I know how to manage expectations. I know how to anticipate what someone wants before they articulate it.

It makes me good at essays.

It also makes me tired.

People assume Julian is the ambitious one.

He is. But not in the way they think.

He wants to dismantle things. Systems. Assumptions. Sometimes himself.

I want stability. I want a future that doesn’t wobble. When teachers talk about Oxbridge, he argues about elitism and power structures. I nod at the appropriate moments and calculate entry requirements. We’re different that way. He burns. I build.

I watch people more than they realise.

Hannah, for example.

She thinks she hides her internal monologue well. She doesn’t. It’s in her jaw when she disagrees with something. In the way she straightens her back when a teacher looks her way, as if bracing.She reminds me of Julian sometimes — that intensity, that refusal to coast. But she’s softer around the edges. Less angry. More… porous.

And then there’s Marla. Marla doesn’t try to hide anything, which is its own kind of disguise. She performs confidence the way other people perform humility. It’s impressive. Exhausting to watch, if I’m honest. She knows she’s beautiful. She knows she’s interesting. She knows the room will tilt toward her if she lets it. What fascinates me isn’t the performance — it’s the flicker underneath. The microsecond where she looks almost unsure, almost searching. Most people miss it.

I don’t.

Being a scholarship girl means you learn the codes quickly.

You laugh at the right cultural references. You google the ones you don’t understand. You lower your voice just enough. You never mention money unless someone else does first.

I’ve become fluent.

At home, Mum still calls me love in a voice that sounds like it’s made of glass. Dad asks about school like it’s a foreign country he wants to map.

“Are they good to you?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. Because they are. Mostly.

What I don’t say is that goodness here has layers. It’s polished. Structured. Conditional.

You are valued as long as you excel. You are admired as long as you don’t disrupt.

Julian disrupts.

I calculate.

Sometimes I think about what would happen if I stopped. If I didn’t get the top mark. If I didn’t smooth over tension.

Would everything tilt?

Or would it continue without me noticing?

That’s the fear, really. Not failure. Replaceability. Julian feels irreplaceable. Loud opinions have gravity. Quiet competence is easier to replicate. So I sharpen it. Refine it. Make it undeniable. Not because I crave applause. Because I crave security.

In chapel, I don’t close my eyes.

I watch.

The ritual fascinates me — the choreography, the shared language. It’s comforting in its predictability. Stand. Sit. Kneel. Respond. There’s something honest about structure. You know where you are in it. Life doesn’t always offer that clarity.

When Mum first lost her hair, she smiled too brightly and said it was “liberating.” I nodded. Julian stormed out of the room.

Later, in the kitchen, she caught my reflection in the microwave door and said, “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

If I’m not strong, what am I for?

St Anne’s talks a lot about leadership. Prefect positions. Head Girl. Responsibility. I don’t want the badge. I want the grades that make the badge irrelevant. Julian thinks I’m cynical.

Maybe I am.

But I’ve seen what happens when systems fail. When health fails. When security evaporates. Prestige isn’t vanity to me. It’s insulation.

And yet.

There are moments when I envy the others.

Hannah, with her visible wrestling. Emily, with her principled defiance. Even Marla, with her reckless magnetism.

They seem alive in ways that aren’t strategic.

I wonder what it would feel like to want something without calculating its long-term viability first.

To choose a subject because it thrills me, not because it secures me.

To like someone without mapping the consequences.

I don’t know if I’m wired for that.