Free Time

I used to be a plan. A certainty. A name they said with intention. Someone they chose to make space for. Now I am free time, a filler task, a way to pass a quiet evening, a dog waiting by the door for a leash that rarely comes. And when it does, it’s never because they wanted to see me. It’s because no one else was available. Because the day happened to be empty. Because walking me is easier than confronting the silence. They don’t understand when I say I feel like free time. They think I want to be scheduled constantly. But it’s not about that. It never was. I just want to matter enough that they think of me on their own. I want to be someone’s instinct again... their first thought, their first reach, the name they gravitate toward without hesitation. But I’m not that anymore. That version of me died quietly in the widening gaps between replies. In the beginning, I was woven into their day. Every thread anchored to me... calls, memes, photos, laughter. I used to be someone’s excitement. Now I’m someone’s leftover energy. The shift is undeniable, a decay I can physically feel. They tell me nothing has changed, but the truth sits between us like a corpse no one wants to acknowledge. If nothing changed, why do I cry myself to sleep waiting for messages that never used to require waiting? If nothing changed, why do they tell me, “I’ll see if I have time,” for something they once did without a second thought? I watch them online... laughing, talking, living, and I realize I exist nowhere in their active world. I am only a paused tab, a muted notification, a name they scroll past until guilt drags them back. I hold myself still, terrified of looking pathetic, shrinking my needs until I choke on them. But swallowing the hurt makes me physically sick, my stomach knots, my chest tightens, my body punishes me for trying to be low maintenance. And here is the hopeless truth. I am not a plan for anyone. I am not a priority. I am not someone’s “want.” I am someone’s “when I have time.” Someone’s “maybe.” Someone’s “later.” Someone’s fading habit. The laughter we used to share is a ghost now, a shadow I keep chasing, knowing it will never solidify again. I will never be woven back in. People don’t reweave what they’ve already let unravel. And the most devastating part? They don’t even notice that I’m gone from their life in the way they’re gone from mine. I ache for a place I will never be given again. I wait for a warmth that will never return. I yearn for a version of them that no longer exists. And I stay... because the scraps I’m given still feel better than the truth. No one is coming back for me.