It’s a strange thing to be forgotten. It’s not an adjective, or a noun, or a verb. It’s not a feeling. And it’s not a saying. It’s a sense of being that absorbs every single part of you, even if it only lasts a moment.

In relationships, the act of being forgotten begins when someone bright and shiny comes along. Someone with whom your love has no history with, someone they haven’t fought with, and someone who hasn’t made themselves look nuts begging you to love them. Although it feels fast to the one who’s about to be forgotten, it’s slow for the one who you love. The one you thought was yours and only yours. Slowly and quickly, he begins to ignore you, claiming he was busy working when you know he’s not. Then he stops caring about how you feel, in any sense, whether it be happy, or mad, or lonely. And finally, he fills your head with drunken lies and has his way with you for one last time, before he’s gone. And now your forgotten.

I probably sound bitter, even though I’ve moved on myself and I’m happy. But I’m not. It’s just that I’ve never forgotten how anyone has made me feel. The good, the bad, and the awful. I remember almost every part. So no, I haven’t forgotten anyone, but I’m sure they’ve forgotten me.