I feel like a book on a dusty shelf, craving the touch of someone who will turn my pages and understand my story
– the silent longing to be found
On a cold, November night, I sat on the park bench, watching the world move without me. People walked by, their indistinct chatter blending in the wind with a soft hum. I pulled my jacket tighter, hoping it would protect me from the chill that wasn't just in the air but in me.
Sometimes, I wondered what it would feel like to disappear. Not in a dramatic way, but to just… fade.
To slip into the unknown like a half-forgotten memory, lingering in the back of someone's mind but never quite grasped. Then I thought, “Maybe that's when they finally noticed my absence. Maybe they'd stop and wonder where I've gone.”
The sky above was covered with clouds, hiding the stars I used to count when I was 4. Even they seemed to have vanished. Their light blinded by the heavy grey.
I sighed and looked down at my hands, mindlessly tracing random patterns on the bench’s cold surface.
Then, I heard faint footsteps approaching. I paid no mind, assuming they'd pass by like everyone else does.
But they stopped.
“Mind if I sit?” a careful, hesitant voice asked.
I looked up to see a stranger around my age, their hands buried deep into their coat pockets, with a small, sheepish smile.
I shrugged, and they sat down, leaving just enough space to be respectful but close enough for me to feel their presence.
For a while, we just sat there in silence. It wasn't awkward, but somehow peaceful, the hum of the world fading in the background.
Then they spoke. “Sometimes, I come here when I feel invisible.” They spoke softly, gazing at the empty path ahead. “Like, if I just vanished one day, would they ever notice?”
My chest tightened, a lump slowly forming on my throat. The words I've been too afraid to say out loud hung in the air, spoken by someone else.
There was a long pause before I spoke.
“Yeah.” I finally whispered. “I know what you mean.”
Finally, they turned to look at me and smiled. A small but genuine curve painted their lips that carry the warmth I didn’t realize I was craving.
“It’s strange,” they said, “but sometimes, when I feel this way, all it takes is for me to know someone else in this world feels the same. It makes life feel a little less lonely.”
I nodded, the lump on my throat growing. I wanted to tell them everything, but I feel like I didn’t need to. Somehow, in the stillness between us, there seems to be a silent understanding.
They reached into their pocket and pulled out a small notebook. “When I feel lost, I write. It helps me weave through my messy thoughts.” They hesitated before handing it to me, “Here, maybe it will help you too.”
I stared at the notebook, feeling emotional. Its edges worn, and the pages slightly crease, as if it held a lifeline worth of thoughts and feelings. Slowly, I took it gently, my fingers brushing theirs for a fleeting second.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
They stood up, brushing a small lump of snow off their jacket. “We all feel invisible sometimes,” they said, looking down at me with a soft look that feels like the hug I've been aching for. “But you're not. I see you.”
Just like that, they walked away, their figure blending on the crowd of the busy street. But they left something behind – a warmth, a spark, a reminder that even in the darkest corners of my mind, there will always be a chance for a connection.
I opened the notebook, and on the first page, in neat handwritten letters, wrote, “Sometimes, you have to let someone read your story for it to truly matter.”
I let the tears fall, for every tear that I shed felt like the weight I had been carrying slowly slipped away.
I traced the words with trembling fingers, the genuine meaning sinking in. For so long, I kept my story locked away, fearing no one would care enough to read it. Yet, a stranger in the span of a few moments had not only seen me but reminded me that being found isn’t always about grand gestures. Sometimes, all it takes is as simple as sharing a bench together on a cold, November night.
I closed the notebook gently, hugging it close to my chest, feeling its warmth as if it carried the same kindness the stranger embodies. A small flicker of hope sparked in me – a feeling I hadn't dared to welcome for a long time.
For the first time, I didn't feel like a book on a dusty shelf. But a story worth reading, and perhaps a story worth sharing.
I stood up, wiping my tears, the notebook still clutched on my hinds. As I walked away from that park bench, the sky above began to clear, a single star twinkling amidst the heavy grey.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled.
