When the World Forgot My Name

I used to be someone.

Not famous, not loud,
but whole.

The kind of person who laughed with her whole chest,
who sang to the dishes when no one was listening,
who remembered birthdays without checking her phone.

But then the world started turning faster,
and I got quieter.

People walked by like I was scenery —
familiar, unimportant, invisible.
Even mirrors stopped recognizing me.

I wasn't sad.
Not at first.

I thought it was just adulthood,
the soft fade into responsibility.
The slow erasing of your favorite colors.

But one day,
my childhood friend called me “strong”
and I realized
no one calls you strong
unless you’ve suffered in silence long enough
for them to think that’s who you are.

That night, I wrote my name on a napkin,
just to see it in ink again.
It looked unfamiliar.
Like someone I should have loved more.

So I started speaking louder.
Wearing red.
Saying “no” without apology.
Taking up space like I meant to.

The world still turns.
But now —
so do I.