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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