We were inseparable once, for that one perfect year. We laughed louder than anyone else, had more fun than anyone else. It was like the whole world knew we had something special, something unbreakable. And then everything changed. He fell in love, and I started to lose him. Slowly, I watched him slip away. Day by day, he moved closer to his new life and further away from me, like I didn’t matter anymore. He never once called me his friend, not the way he did for everyone else. And I said nothing. I just kept quiet, holding onto the memories of what we used to be, pretending they were enough to get me through.
When he missed his old friends, it was never me he missed. He never even thought of me. And God, that hurt. But I never complained. I let him live his life, let him forget me, even though I never stopped missing him. I’d drop the occasional “Miss you, bro,” just to remind him I was still here, waiting. But that was it. I didn’t need to say more. I was already invisible to him, and maybe I was starting to accept it.
Whenever he needed something, though, I was the first person he came to. He never came just to talk or to check on me—only when he needed something done. And I always helped, because no matter how much it hurt, I would’ve done anything for him. I told myself it was okay. But he never remembered those times. And now, out of the blue, he reaches out again. Not because he missed me, but because he needed something. And once again, I dropped everything. I gave him whatever he asked for, just like always. But deep down, I wondered, “Am I just the person you come to when there’s no one else left?”
Now, he’s offended. Seriously? After everything, he’s the one who’s hurt? What about all the times I needed him, and he wasn’t there? What about the times I was right in front of him, practically screaming for him to see me, and he didn’t? It’s like I didn’t exist to him unless he needed something. He was the only friend I ever cared about, the one person I thought would always matter. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s time to stop caring. But I don’t know how. I don’t know how to stop being the clown—the one who’s always there, always waiting, always hoping for something that will never come back.
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