I WAS HIDING IN THE SCHOOL BATHROOM WHEN SHE FOUND ME
I don’t usually talk to people much at school. I keep my hoodie up, earphones in, just trying to get through the day without anybody looking at me too hard. It’s easier that way.
But that morning, everything felt too loud. Too bright. Too much.
So I ditched third period and hid in the girls’ bathroom—same stall I always used when I needed to disappear. I sat on the closed toilet lid, pulling my knees up to my chest, trying not to cry.
Then I heard boots. Heavy ones.
A knock on the stall door followed. “You okay in there?”
It was Officer Givens. Everyone knew her, but I’d never said more than “Hi.”
I didn’t answer, just held my breath.
She didn’t force it. Just waited a while. Then she said something that made me crack. Something so specific I knew she wasn’t guessing.
“You’re not in trouble,” she said softly. “But I saw your name on the nurse’s sign-in last week… and I remember what it’s like to feel invisible.”
I opened the stall door.
I thought she’d take me straight to the principal’s office, but instead, she walked me outside for air. Let me talk. Didn’t push.
We sat on the steps behind the cafeteria. She told me about how she used to hide in the supply closet at her high school, just to breathe. How it took her years to realize that being strong doesn’t mean being silent.
When we came back in, she asked if I wanted a photo—something to remind me that today didn’t break me.
I nodded.
She snapped one with her Polaroid camera. “You don’t have to smile,” she said. “Just breathe.”
Then she handed me the photo… and on the back, she had written five words in neat block letters:
“You are still here. Always.”
I keep it in my locker, behind a sketch I did in art class. I look at it on the hard days.
Because sometimes, all it takes is one person who doesn’t walk away.
And one quiet photo that proves you made it.
