She entered our classroom on a quiet Wednesday morning, dressed in a bright green outfit that stood out from our plain uniforms. Her hair was neatly tied back, and her wheelchair shimmered with sun-colored wheels. Braces supported both her legs, but she moved with a calm confidence that turned heads.
At first, everyone acted overly cautious—speaking gently, offering awkward smiles, unsure how to interact. I decided not to tiptoe around her. “Where are you from?” I asked casually. She looked at me with a knowing smile. “You already know,” she said.
I blinked. “I don’t,” I replied.
Then she said my name—“Eleanor”—with a familiarity that startled me. “Do you remember me?”
I didn’t. Her face sparked no memory, but something in her eyes made me pause. “It’s okay,” she said kindly. “It’s been a long time. You were very little when we last saw each other.”
Her name was Violet. Unlike everyone else, she never made me feel awkward or uncertain. And because of that, I stopped seeing her wheelchair before her personality. We became friends—quietly, naturally. I helped push her chair at lunch, carried her books, and we spent afternoons talking under the sun.
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