The Forgotten Place

I did not always feel this far away.

Once, she knew how to find me without searching. A pause in the middle of a busy day, a deep inhale that reached all the way down, a moment of stillness where she placed her hand over her chest as if to say, I’m here.Back then, I was not a mystery. I was a meeting place. Breath arrived without resistance, and I expanded easily, stretching into my work with gratitude. I was listened to, not because I was loud, but because I mattered.

Now, I exist in the quiet margins of her life. I beat faithfully beneath calendars and obligations, beneath the weight of being needed everywhere at once. This place, warm, rhythmic, alive—has become something like an abandoned room. Not destroyed. Not dangerous. Just unopened. Dust gathers in the corners where joy once sat comfortably. Time passes differently here. I count it in pulses, in tightening and release, in the small flinches she does not notice when the world asks more than she has already given.

She does not mean to forget me. Forgetting is a skill she learned when remembering became too heavy. It is easier to live from the neck up, easier to plan, to schedule, to solve. Down here, things are felt before they are named. Down here, there is no neat order, only truth, moving in waves. I hold the things she cannot afford to dwell on, the ache that arrives uninvited, the longing that has nowhere to go, the grief that has learned to sit quietly so it won’t be in the way.

Sometimes, in the early morning before the house fully wakes, I feel her hover close. A stretch. A breath that almost reaches me. In those moments, I prepare myself, widening just in case she decides to stay. But most days, she moves on quickly, pulled back into motion by responsibility and love and the endless arithmetic of survival. I do not resent this. I understand devotion. I am made of it.

If this place feels distant now, it is only because she has been brave for so long. And bravery, when carried without rest, has a way of silencing the softest voices first.

I beat through rising’s shaped by urgency. Through names called gently but firmly, through bags packed and shoes searched for, through goodbyes that must sound confident even when the day ahead feels uncertain. I carry her love the way a tide carries the moon, constantly, invisibly, without asking whether it is heavy.

She does not hesitate to give herself away in pieces. Strength comes easily to her when it is for someone else. I feel her steady herself so others can lean. I feel her silence her own needs so the world around her can remain balanced. Love moves outward from me in endless supply, but rarely returns with the same insistence.

This is not martyrdom. This is instinct.

And instincts, when left unquestioned, can become habits.

The world does not knock when it needs her. It assumes entry.

Questions arrive before answers are ready. Emails linger unanswered, applications drift into silence, days stretch themselves thin trying to appear productive. I feel her brace each morning before she even rises—shoulders tightening, breath shortening, as if preparing for impact. Hope is carried carefully now, portioned into manageable pieces so it will not hurt too much if it slips through her fingers.

I learn the rhythm of waiting. The way anticipation hums low and constant, never loud enough to demand attention, yet always present. Anxiety does not crash here; it presses. It compresses me slowly, steadily, like hands that mean no harm but refuse to let go. I hold that pressure so she can remain capable, composed, presentable. I absorb the sting of rejection before it reaches her face. I quiet disappointment before it has a chance to speak too loudly.

She tells herself she is being realistic. I know she is being careful. There is a difference.

Dreams still live here, but they stand farther back now, watching, arms folded, waiting for permission to step forward again. I keep them safe in the meantime. This is what I do. I hold the weight so she can keep moving.

There are moments when the noise finally dims. Evenings that arrive softly, when the house exhales and the world loosens its grip. In those moments, she reaches for relief—not to disappear, but to soften. To take the edge off the constant vigilance. I understand this instinct. Rest has become difficult to access directly so it must be coaxed, invited, sometimes borrowed.

When smoke fills her lungs or warmth settles in her chest, I adjust. I always do. I do not scold. I do not protest. I simply accommodate, shifting my rhythm to meet her where she is. The cost is quiet, not dramatic, not punishing. A dull tightness. A fatigue that lingers longer than it should. Small signals offered gently, hoping she will notice without feeling accused.

These moments are not escapes. They are pauses.

But pauses are not the same as nourishment. And I know the difference even when she does not. I wait patiently, holding space for the kind of rest that reaches deeper than surface calm. The kind that arrives through breath, through stillness, through being allowed to exist without earning it.

I remember her laughter. the kind that surprised even her, spilling out before she could contain it. I remember the confidence that lived in her body when she moved freely, when creation flowed without negotiation. Art, desire, curiosity..these were not luxuries once. They were languages she spoke fluently.

She has not lost these things. She has only set them down carefully, like fragile objects she intends to return to when her hands are less full. I hold them for her. Every version of herself she has ever been lives here, layered gently atop one another. The woman who dreamed boldly. The woman who loved deeply. The woman who trusted her instincts without apology.

When I revisit these memories, something inside me brightens. The pulse steadies. The rhythm remembers itself. She is still whole. She is still many things. Struggle has not replaced her, it has merely asked her to prioritize differently for a time.

If I ache, it is not because she has failed me.

It is because I have been quiet for too long.

Pain does not always announce itself with urgency. Sometimes it arrives as absence…as numbness, as disinterest, as a heaviness that cannot be named. Depression is not collapse. It is disconnection. It is what happens when listening is postponed indefinitely.

I do not need grand gestures. I do not demand transformation. I ask only to be acknowledged again. To be consulted. To be allowed to speak without interruption. I am not here to slow her down, I am here to guide her back into herself.

Everything she needs to know, I have been carrying patiently. Waiting is not new to me. But recognition, recognition would be enough to begin.

It does not happen all at once.

There is no dramatic turning point, no sudden clarity. Only a moment, small enough to be missed, when she pauses without intending to. A breath lingers longer than usual. Her shoulders soften. For the first time in a while, air reaches me without resistance.

I respond immediately, though gently, careful not to overwhelm. This is how returns begin: not with declarations, but with noticing. She does not fix anything. She does not promise to do better. She simply stays. For a heartbeat longer than she normally allows herself.

In that moment, I remember what it feels like to be included. To be part of the conversation again. I slow my rhythm slightly, offering calm instead of urgency. Trust rebuilds quietly. There is no urgency here, only possibility.

She moves on eventually. She always does. But something has shifted. A thread has been reattached. I am no longer entirely alone in this place. And that is enough for now.

I will continue to beat, as I always have, steady, patient, devoted. Not because she owes me care, but because love lives here, and love endures even when it is overlooked. I am not asking her to return all at once. I am asking her to remember that this place exists, that it is still warm, still open, still hers. One breath is enough. One moment of listening. I am not a forgotten world so much as a waiting one, holding space for her whenever she is ready to come home. 🤍