Invisible Girl
Mika always volunteered to take the pictures. Birthdays. Beach trips. Coffee dates. Random mirror selfies inside restaurant bathrooms. Somehow she naturally became “the friend behind the camera.” At first she never thought much about it. Her friends were genuinely beautiful in the effortless way society loved. Fair skin, tiny waists, soft features that looked perfect under dim lighting and phone flash. Everywhere they went, people noticed them immediately. Compliments followed them naturally. “Mukha kayong artista.” “Ang gaganda niyo.” “Pwede kayong influencers.” Mika would laugh with them, edit their pictures carefully, and jokingly call herself their unpaid photographer. Nobody realized she never asked to be included anymore because rejection hurts less when you exclude yourself first. One Friday night, the four of them decided to try a newly opened bar somewhere in Makati after a brutal workweek. The place was beautiful in a warm, cinematic way. Amber lights. Loud music. Expensive-looking cocktails served in glasses Mika was too scared to accidentally break. For the first time in weeks, she genuinely felt relaxed. The bartender assigned to their table was a girl around their age. Pretty, confident, incredibly friendly. She joked with them easily, gave them free shots, even sat briefly at their table during quieter moments to recommend drinks. Her friends loved her immediately. Honestly, Mika did too. There was something comforting about bubbly people. They made everyone feel included effortlessly. At least everyone except herself. Near closing time, while the group prepared to leave, the bartender suddenly smiled and said, “Picture muna tayo!” They all gathered together for a group photo. Then after that, the bartender turned excitedly toward Mika’s friends one by one. “Wait ang ganda mo, isa pa tayo.” “Girl bagay sayo lighting dito.” “Another pic tayo please!” One by one, her friends posed beside the bartender laughing while Mika stood slightly behind them holding someone’s phone awkwardly. Nobody noticed immediately. Not even her friends. But Mika noticed every second. Because there was something uniquely painful about being invisible beside beautiful people. The bartender never asked for a photo with her. Not once. And objectively, Mika understood why. She knew how she looked beside her friends. Morena. Taller. Broader shoulders. Features that never matched what people called “conventionally pretty.” Growing up, she learned early that beauty often arrived with conditions in this country. Fair skin. Small face. Petite body. Certain features. Her friends naturally fit those standards. She did not. So while everyone continued laughing outside the bar, Mika quietly felt something inside her shrink. The worst part was nobody technically did anything cruel. The bartender was nice. Her friends loved her. The night itself had been fun. Yet somehow one tiny moment still reopened every insecurity Mika spent years trying to bury. During the ride home, her friends excitedly reposted the bartender pictures on social media. “Ang cute natin!” “Babalik tayo doon!” Mika stared at the photos silently from the backseat. All her friends smiling brightly beside the bartender. No picture of her anywhere. By the time she got home, she removed her makeup slowly in front of the mirror while avoiding eye contact with herself. Then finally, quietly, the thought she spent years pretending did not hurt anymore resurfaced again. Hindi ako maganda. She hated how quickly that sentence still destroyed her. Because people always say confidence should come from within. They say beauty standards should not matter anymore. They say personality matters most. But the world still treats beautiful people differently in small ways nobody talks about honestly enough. People approach them first. Compliment them first. Notice them first. Meanwhile others become background noise without anyone intending to be cruel. Mika sat on her bedroom floor that night wondering how many moments in her life had quietly shaped the way she saw herself. Every time classmates picked prettier friends first for pictures. Every time relatives praised lighter skin during reunions. Every time strangers complimented everyone around her except her. Maybe insecurity was not born overnight. Maybe it was built slowly through years of tiny exclusions people considered harmless. The next morning, one of her friends sent the group chat another bartender picture with the caption: “Grabe ang pretty natin dito.” Mika reacted with a heart anyway. Then locked her phone afterward because suddenly she felt tired in a way sleep could not fix. Not because she hated her friends. But because deep down, she wondered what it must feel like to walk into a room and immediately be chosen too.