I live on the edges of other people’s lives. Not missing—just not needed.
I’m the one you talk to when there’s no better choice. The placeholder. The almost.
People don’t leave with a bang. They drift away, forget to reply, pick someone else, and don’t even realize they’ve chosen. Somehow, I’m always on the losing end of decisions no one admits they’re making.
I keep wondering what the common thread is. I always come back to me.
It’s not that I’m unlovable. It’s worse. I’m forgettable.
There’s a unique kind of hurt that comes from never being fought for. From realizing that if you vanished, it wouldn’t break anything it would just slightly rearrange the room.
I don’t feel broken enough to fix. I don’t feel whole enough to want.
And that’s the hardest part: There’s no big tragedy here. Just the slow realization that I’m optional.
I’m still here. But no one is looking for me.