The Price Of Being Seen

⚠️Trigger warning : body shaming and bullying

The market square was busier than usual that afternoon. The air was thick with chatter, footsteps, and the smell of roasted coffee from the café.
Amelia sat on a bench beneath the crooked lamppost—her usual spot—notebook in hand, pretending to write while her eyes followed the crowd.

She loved people-watching. There was comfort in imagining their stories: the old man with trembling hands feeding pigeons; the teenager pacing, clutching a phone; the mother tugging her child towards the bakery. Everyone was a story waiting to be told.

For a while, Amelia forgot herself—the ache behind her ribs, the soft hum of doubt that never truly went quiet. Here, she could simply exist: unseen, unnoticed.

Until the laughter came.

It began as a high-pitched giggle from across the square. Two young women, matching cream coats and glossy boots, were staring. One nudged the other and whispered something that made them burst into brighter laughter.

“Stop it,” said the older woman beside them—their mother, perhaps—but there was amusement in her tone, not scolding.

“What is that?” one of the girls said, loud enough to split the air.

“Trying to be Wednesday Addams?” the other snorted. “More like Frankenstein.”

The mother chuckled. “Oh, they’re only joking,” she said, smiling as though cruelty were a charm.

Amelia froze. For a heartbeat she couldn’t move. Her notebook slipped a little in her hands.
“Right,” she managed. “What’s the problem?”

“You… you’re scary,” the first girl said with mock innocence.

They walked off laughing—three neat silhouettes swallowed by the crowd—leaving the echo of their voices fluttering like litter across the stone.

Amelia stayed seated, staring at the cobbles. The words clung to her skin like dust she couldn’t brush away. She’d never seen them before, yet they’d judged her so easily—reduced her to a joke for the way she looked.

By the time she reached home, the sting had settled into something heavier. The flat seemed smaller than usual, walls drawing in as memories surfaced:
men who said she wasn’t their type, friends who called her different in that pitying tone, the mirror she’d learned to avoid.

She stood at the window. The sky was the colour of bruised lilac. Why are looks so important? she wondered. Why do people think beauty gives them permission to be cruel?

Those girls and their mother had looked perfect—shiny hair, manicured nails, effortless smiles. Perhaps that was their armour. Amelia knew what it cost to live without one—to walk the world unguarded and still be kind.

She lit a candle and sat at her desk. The flame shook once, then steadied. Her hand did the same.

“You don’t know someone’s story,” she wrote. “You don’t know how far they’ve come just to exist in this world. So don’t be cruel. Don’t laugh. Don’t pretend your beauty makes you better.
If I’m a monster, at least I have a heart.”

She read the words aloud. The echo sounded like defiance—small, but real.

No, she thought. She wouldn’t hide anymore. Not her face. Not her truth.

Outside, the market lights flickered on one by one, like stars after a storm. Somewhere, a clock tolled the hour—one beat late, as always.

Tomorrow, she would walk those streets again. And if they looked at her—really looked—perhaps they’d finally see something they couldn’t name.
Something beautiful. Something terrifying.

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Author’s Note

This story was inspired by a real encounter—a reminder that cruelty often hides behind polite smiles. Writing it helped me reclaim the version of myself that once felt “too different.” To anyone who’s ever been mocked for simply existing: you are not the monster. You are the art. 💜

© 2025 Louise C Kay. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.