"Tickets, please. Please have your tickets ready," says the conductor as he enters the car.

A frenzy of rustling and unzipping ensues as passengers move to comply. I stop whatever I'm doing, reach into the pouch of my backpack and pull out my ticket.

As the conductor inches down the aisle, he checks each and every passenger, making sure the time stamp is correct, making sure the zones are correct, making sure people aren't hiding under seats to avoid his thorough inspection.

As he nears, I hold up my ticket proudly and wait for validation, taking care that my fingers aren't hiding any pertinent information. But when he reaches my seat, he doesn't validate my ticket. He doesn't even see me. His gaze simply moves from the row before me to the row after me. I'm left sitting there looking dumbfounded, still holding up my ticket and wondering what just happened.

I consider speaking up to ask him to check my ticket, but hold back out of fear of seeming needy. Worse, though, I hold back out of fear that I'll be ignored, which will only confirm my invisibility.

Instead, I slip the ticket into my backpack, close the entry I'm writing and write the one you just read.