when the room forgets my name

i am afraid of being left out,
not of parties or grand beginnings,
but of the small details
that slip through the cracks—
the story told in passing,
the laugh that doesn’t wait for me,
the moment that moves on without my name in it.

even the smallest thing matters,
because it means i belong somewhere,
that my voice has weight,
that i am still woven
into the fabric of someone’s day.

please don’t become a stranger.
for so long i believed
what we had was constant,
a rhythm steady enough to come home to.
but constancy is fragile—
and i am terrified of silence
that does not break for me.

i picture myself walking home alone,
sitting at empty tables,
reading in a library
where no one is expected,
where no one waits.
the thought echoes louder than solitude itself.

i know i cannot be everything,
cannot fill every gap.
someone else might give more
than i will ever be able to offer.
and yet—
i still hope my presence
is something worth keeping,
even when the world rearranges itself
without me at the center.

because what we share
is the truest thing i know,
something i would hold with both hands
even as it slips,
even as it changes.

to be wanted,
to be remembered,
to not vanish quietly—
that is all i ask.

if nothing else,
let me remain in your thoughts
the way you remain in mine,
long after the room has forgotten my name.