My Best Friend Is Invisible Mga Nobela at Kwento

I said to him, "It was from an unknown person, but got so angry and shredded the paper to pieces." His face scrunched up a bit, "Yes. I did tear it. But I can narrate what was written on it." "It says: I am your invisible friend who just returned from my trip and I will be visiting you soon to claim what's rightfully mine. You better be prepared for it. It's not gonna be easy." This was what was written on the sheet. How do you see it?".

With a deep breath, I shifted their attention to the next riddle, trying to ignore the lingering sense of isolation and fear that still clung to me. "Ok. Leave it. We are still yet to discover our second riddle," I said, my voice steady but my heart still pounding with confusion and frustration. I knew that it was pointless to try and make them understand my point of view, but I couldn't help feeling like something was deeply wrong. As my friends rallied around the next riddle, trying to decipher its cryptic clues, I found myself lost in thought. Why had I become invisible? How had it happened? Was it some kind of strange glitch in the matrix, a freak occurrence of reality bending in on itse

“You, me, that party.” “Absolutely not.” “Absolutely yes,” she countered. “You need it. You’ve been walking around like someone stole your joy.” “Maybe they did,” I muttered. “Then let’s steal it back,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You show up, you look good, and you stop hiding. We’re going to test a little theory I’ve been sitting on.” I raised a brow. “A theory?” She smirked. “That sometimes the only way to stop feeling invisible… is to make the person who made you feel that way actually see you.”

The guy who made jokes so no one would know im invisible. I set down my glass. "You were never invisible, Derek." "I was to you." I didn't have an answer for that. Because he was right. In high school, I'd barely noticed him. He was just part of Ethan's entourage—background noise, a supporting character in my story. "I'm sorry," I said. "Don't be. We were kids. We didn't know anything." "And now?" "Now you're just Tori. And I'm just Derek. And that's enough." He walked me to my car at the end of the night. The parking lot was quiet, the city lights blurred in the distance. He took my hand—tentative, like he was asking permission.

I don’t know the extent of his home life and I never push to find out about it but I know it wasn’t good. He once told me one of his favorite things about me was that I never pried into his business, which is ironically what most people hate about me. I’ve been called a bad friend so many times because when someone is crying, upset, angry, irritated, they want you to ask about it but I never do. I guess I just feel like if you want me to know then you’ll tell me. I lucked out with my roommate Lydia, we are great friends because I never have to ask what’s wrong or if she’s ok she will just bust in and tell me exactly what’s going on. She’s the talker and I’m the listener, we work perfectly.

My Brother's best friend was dragging me like he owned me. At the top of the stairs, he shoved open a door to a private VIP booth. The room was dark, soundproofed, with deep couches and low lights. He threw me inside, slamming the door shut behind us. The bass from the club was muffled now, but my pulse was louder. I spun around to face him, breathing hard. My hair was messy from the dance floor, eyes wide but defiant. “What the hell was that?”

“Kieran, why are you wearing sweatshirts in this heat? You do not have to hide your scars. They are a testament to how much you loved your parents, how much you would have done for them,” I shake my head. “Nani, my scars haven’t healed. My arms are bandaged. That’s why I wear sweatshirts,” I tell her. Her face falls. “Oh.” “And I don’t hang out with my friends because none of them have reached out since my parents died. Everyone knows I’m here, and no one has even sent me a message,” No one says anything. “I mean no disrespect, but the next time you all want to talk about me, ask before making assumptions about things you know nothing of,” I say, taking a step back. “And seeing as how much y

R A Y M O N D I'm not sure what was going on, but when my people looked her up, there was no mention of a boyfriend. So, why was this guy—who, according to my people, was supposed to be her best friend—holding her waist like he was her boyfriend?

The glass fogged up from my breath. My tea's gone cold. My face is stiff with half-dried clay, but I can’t move. I can’t do anything but stare at the city that looks so far away all of a sudden. Because my best friend is suffering. Really suffering. And I’m not there. I’m here, in this stupid silk robe with a vitamin C mask and an overpriced view, trying to act like I have peace when the person who knows me best is crumbling on the other end of the line.

Ashley pouts, her lips downturned but her eyes giving her away—disappointment and longing written all over her face. "Is the D really that good?" Chelsea asks, smirking over her coffee. "Better," Ashley says without hesitation, her tone so flat it's clear she's not exaggerating. I nearly choke on my donut. Fantastic. Now my appetite's gone. Nothing kills a sugar rush faster than hearing your best friend rate your brother's dick like it belongs on Yelp. Tuning them out before Ashley can scar me further, I slide my phone out of my pocket and open the group chat. My thumb hovers for a second, hesitation twisting in my gut like it always does when I feel like I'm bothering them while they're han