This is what Charlotte writes.

03.06.08

“Hello,” I think, meaning to say, but the words never reach my lips.
“Hello,” you think back, and, though the room remains silent, I could have sworn I heard your voice.
This is new to me, this speaking without speaking, and, understandably, it is strange, and somewhat uncomfortable. If you had told me(no, not you you, for you “telling” me anything is laughable– or not– and until recently I did not know how to year) three weeks ago that I would be communicating this way I would have waved you off, rolled my eyes, changed the subject. It’s weird how life can screw with you like that.
“Yeah,” you agree, “life can be pretty twisted.” Despite the fact that I was thinking about it, I had forgotten that you could hear me, and your unexpected addition caught me off guard. There isn’t much emotion in your voice, just a quiet confirmation of what I had said. I look over at you, sitting to my left with your back against the wall. You who have gotten the short end of every stick that ever existed. You were picked last for the game of life. Not even picked, not really. You were just the only one left, shuffled to a team so that that game could begin.
You’re older than you look, I know. I don’t know how old you are and I just can’t ask. Can’t even think about it, because that’s the same thing. I wish that you could see the world that I see, but your eyes are closed, always closed. You stay here, in the dark, because outside hurts you. Not because of any real environmental factors – your skin is not so delicate as it seems, and you are nearly impervious to cold or heat– but because of them. Because of the thoughts they think and the unspoken words that bounce off of you and hurt more than any hail or even needles. They don’t understand and they are afraid and think that by thinking they can keep you from knowing but thinking is the worst pain of all.
I was like them but I’m not now, won’t ever be again, can’t even think about it.
“It’s OK,” you think.
“I know.” But it’s not.