memories of me fade

I've been here for as long as I can remember. In the quiet corners of childhood, I linger—always present, always watching. Children see me, their eyes wide with wonder, their hearts open to the impossible. I look like them, a boy of maybe seven or eight, with soft features and a smile that never fades. My hair is light, like golden sunbeams, and my eyes are deep pools of innocent curiosity. But I am not like them.

No, I don't grow, I don't change. I simply… exist.

It's a strange thing, to be forgotten over and over again. At first, I didn't understand why. Why do the children who laugh with me, who run through fields with me, forget my name the moment they grow up? I tried so hard, at first, to make them remember. I would hold their hands tightly, tell them to promise me they'd never forget. But promises are fragile things in the hands of time, and time moves forward for everyone—except me.

I live in the spaces of their childhood, in their dreams and make-believe worlds. I'm their companion, their confidant. I listen to their wildest dreams, their deepest fears. And then, one day, they grow up. The light in their eyes dims just a little, and they stop seeing me. They don't need to look far, they don't need to say goodbye. One morning, they just wake up and forget me, as if I were a shadow in their imagination.

The first time it happened, I cried.

Her name was Lily, and she was my best friend. We met when she was five, and she could see me as clear as day. Every afternoon, after her lessons were done, we'd go to the meadow just outside her house. There, we'd pretend we were knights battling dragons, or pirates searching for hidden treasure. She'd laugh, her cheeks flushed with joy, and I'd laugh with her, free from the weight of knowing what was to come.

But I knew, deep down, what always comes.

When Lily turned ten, something changed. She still smiled, still laughed, but she started to talk more about the "real" world—the world of school and chores, of friends she could touch, of responsibilities that seemed so important. The games in the meadow became fewer, shorter, and then one day, she didn't come at all. I waited for her at our usual spot, hoping that maybe she was just busy, that maybe tomorrow she'd come running to me like she always did.

She never did.

I found her a few days later, sitting in her room, playing with her toys. I called her name, but she didn't look up. I stood right in front of her, waving my hands, calling her name louder and louder, but she didn't see me. She didn't hear me.

I was invisible to her now.

I followed her for a while after that, always just behind her, hoping that maybe—just maybe—she'd remember. I watched her grow from a child into a teenager, her face losing its roundness, her voice no longer filled with the unfiltered joy it once had. I was there on the day she left for university, watching from the doorway, feeling the weight of goodbye even though she didn't know I was there.

She had forgotten me. Just like they all do.

The years passed, and I saw her only from a distance, a figure I once knew so well but who had become a stranger. She married, had children of her own. I watched, standing outside her window as her children laughed and played, wondering if they could see me, too.

One day, her little boy ran out into the meadow, his arms stretched wide, shouting at the top of his lungs. I approached, slowly, cautiously, not wanting to hope—but then, he turned to me, his eyes wide with that same wonder I once saw in Lily's eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked, smiling.

I smiled back. "I'm just a friend," I said.

And so it began again. I played with him, just as I had with Lily, and for a while, I forgot the sadness that always lingered at the edges of my mind. But I knew, deep down, that it would end. It always ends.

Lily grew old. Her hair turned silver, her steps slowed, and her laughter became a soft memory of what it once was. She would sit on her porch, her hands folded in her lap, watching her grandchildren play in the yard. She was still beautiful to me, even though she couldn't see me anymore. I wanted to speak to her, to tell her that I was still here, that I never left, but I couldn't. I didn't have that power.

On the day she passed away, I stood by her side, watching as her family gathered around her. They wept, holding her hand as her breaths grew shallower, until, finally, she was gone.

I felt it like a weight in my chest, though I had no heart to break.

But I remained the same—small, unchanged, the same child she once laughed with in the meadow.

After she was gone, I wandered through the fields where we used to play, feeling the emptiness of her absence more deeply than I had ever felt anything before. I knew that another child would come one day, that I would make another friend, but the thought brought me no comfort. Because I knew that, in the end, they would all grow up. They would all forget me.

And I would remain.

Time does not touch me the way it touches them. I do not grow old, I do not change. I am always the child they once knew, a figure from their past that they can no longer place. I am the friend they forget, the one they leave behind when they step into the world of adults.

I've learned to accept it, I suppose. The laughter, the joy I bring them—it's enough, even if it's only temporary. Even if, in the end, they forget me, I'll still remember them. I'll remember every laugh, every story, every secret they whispered to me in the quiet of their childhood.

I'll remember Lily, and all the others who came after her.

And I'll wait, in the fields, in the dreams of children, for the next one who can see me. The next one who will laugh with me, if only for a little while.

Because that's who I am.

I am the one they forget, but I am always here. And I will be, for as long as time exists.