He was invisible, or at least as invisible as a man can get and still be solid and alive. It wasn’t as though no one ever saw him, but they didn’t notice him. They’d greet him absently and immediately proceeded to forget him. That’s what he was, forgettable.
He was common and average, from his name James Smith, to his height, build, and weight, to the color of his skin. His eyes were a common brown, as was his hair. His clothes, while immaculately pressed, were somehow neither dated nor fashionable. He didn’t stick out, which was both a blessing and a curse. It was, as he thought, the way it was, and that was that.
From a young age, he learned that he didn’t matter. His parents only tolerated him, lavishing their attention to their eldest son, and their youngest daughter respectively. He had middling grades, no athletic abilities…
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