Weight of Names

The first time I noticed it, I thought I was imagining things.

“Eli,” my teacher called, and something like a warm stone settled on my chest. It was small—just enough to make me pause, to make me wonder if I’d taken a deep breath without realizing it.

By lunch, three more people had said my name. Each time, the weight grew heavier. I told myself it was nothing—fatigue, nerves, the start of a cold.

But by the end of the day, my legs ached as if I’d run a marathon.

How the Weight Grew

It didn’t happen every time someone thought about me, only when they spoke my name aloud.

“Eli, can you grab that for me?”
“Eli, you forgot your notebook.”
“Eli, you’re quiet today.”

Each syllable was like another brick added to an invisible backpack strapped to my body. The weight wasn’t metaphorical—it was real. My shoulders hunched, my steps slowed, and my breathing grew shallow.

At first, I could shake it off. Sleep helped; I’d wake up lighter, as if the day’s weight had evaporated overnight. But the more people said my name, the longer it took to recover.

The Popularity Problem

Before this started, I was a pretty average guy. Not invisible, but not the center of attention either. That changed fast.

The more sluggish and withdrawn I became, the more people seemed to notice. Teachers called on me more, friends checked in, strangers at the bus stop asked if I was okay. Every question began with my name.

Every question made me heavier.

Soon, I couldn’t run during gym class. My feet dragged. My back ached. I started avoiding people, skipping lunch, hiding in the library where no one knew me well enough to call out to me.

The Day I Couldn’t Stand

It happened on a Tuesday.

“Eli!”
“Eli, wait up!”
“Hey, Eli, over here!”

By the time I reached the school gates, my knees were trembling. My backpack felt like it was filled with stones, but I knew it was my own body that had become impossibly heavy.

When I got home, I collapsed on the floor of my room. I couldn’t even lift my head. My phone buzzed on the carpet beside me—messages from friends, my mom, even my little sister. I didn’t have to open them to know they all began the same way: Eli…

The weight pressed me into the carpet until I could barely breathe. My vision darkened.

The Stranger Who Knew

I woke up in a small, dimly lit room. A woman sat across from me, her hands folded on her lap. She looked old—older than my grandmother—but her eyes were bright.

“You’ve inherited it,” she said.

“Inherited what?” I croaked. My voice sounded strange, like it had to fight its way past something thick in my throat.

“The burden of names.” She smiled sadly. “Some of us carry the weight of recognition. Every time we’re named, the world reminds us we exist. That reminder… adds up.”

She told me her name was Mara, but I didn’t feel anything when she said it. “Why doesn’t your name weigh you down?” I asked.

“Because no one knows it anymore,” she replied. “I’ve erased it from the world. No friends, no family, no records. Even I avoid speaking it.”

I shivered. “You mean you’re… alone?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “It’s the only way to stay light enough to move.”

The Choice

Mara offered me a way out. She could teach me how to fade—how to stop people from saying my name. It would mean starting over somewhere new, never keeping friends for long, and never letting anyone get close enough to say it aloud with affection.

“You’ll live,” she said. “But you won’t be known.”

The alternative was to keep living as I was, until one day someone said my name for the last time and I wouldn’t be able to get up again.

I thought about my little sister, who shouted “Eli!” every time I came home. I thought about my best friend, who said my name in the middle of a laugh. I thought about the way hearing my name in someone’s voice made me feel seen, even as it pulled me down.

The Weight We Carry Willingly

I didn’t take her offer.

Instead, I learned to ration my days, to disappear for a while when the weight grew too much. I told people to use nicknames—E, L, even “hey you”—but I never erased my name entirely.

Yes, it still grows heavy. Sometimes it pins me to my bed for hours. But some names aren’t meant to vanish, and some weights are worth bearing.

Because the truth is, the heaviest thing isn’t my name.
It’s the thought of no one ever saying it again.