AlAnoud Writes

There comes a time when you begin to see
That you are no one’s favorite, quietly.
You have friends, you laugh, you belong,
Yet somehow, you’re never the one they long
To tell their stories to at the end of the day,
Or think to call when something comes their way.

You are included, but rarely sought,
Remembered, but not the first thought.
You exist in their lives, and perhaps that is true,
But are you ever the one they turn to?

You are the one who thinks to write,
Who remembers the details, who makes the time;
Who asks the questions, extends the hand,
Who makes the effort to help friendships stand.

You make the connections, draw the thread,
Put words to thoughts left unsaid.
You introduce people, bring them near,
Create the moments that make them feel here.

And then you watch, from just outside,
As the connections grow and the friendships thrive.
You are the reason some people meet,
Yet find no place saved for you in the seat.

And nothing here is meant to blame.
You do not ask for love by name.
You do not wish to count each call
Or keep a ledger of who gives what at all.

You only wonder, now and then,
Why you must always start again.
Why your hand must be the first to reach,
Why closeness feels like something you must teach.

Perhaps you have become so constant, so sure,
That your presence feels permanent, secure.
Perhaps they assume you’ll always be there,
And never consider the effort you bear.

Or perhaps you have learned to make things so easy
That no one notices when you grow weary.
You make room for others, you soften the space,
Then wonder if anyone would notice your place.

For there is a particular kind of ache
In being the one who gives, who makes
The first move, the plan, the call, the space,
And never quite receives the same embrace.

It is not the absence of a crowd
That makes this loneliness so loud.
It is to stand among those you hold dear
And wonder if your absence would appear.

Would anyone think to seek your face?
Would anyone notice the unfilled space?
Would a silence settle, a question arise,
Or would the days pass in their usual guise?

And what hurts most is the thought you entertain,
That somehow their distance must explain
Something in you, some invisible flaw,
Some reason you’re never the one they call.

You wonder if you’re too much, too sincere,
Too available, too always here.
You search yourself for what you might change,
As though being forgotten is yours to explain.

But you do not want to grow cold or reserved,
To ration your kindness or guard every word.
You do not want to make affection an art,
Or build a fortress around your heart.

You are simply tired of being the thread
That binds the room, then goes unfed;
Of making sure everyone has a place,
While wondering who would make room for your space.

Perhaps the answer is not to become
Less open, less warm, or less forthcoming.
Perhaps it is simply to pause and see
Who crosses the distance back to you.

To leave some silence unanswered for once,
To stop being the perpetual response.
Not as a test, nor to punish or part,
But to learn who carries you in their heart.

For you have spent so long making room
For others to flourish, to gather, to bloom,
That somewhere along the way, without knowing why,
You forgot you could wait to be invited inside.

And still, you hope. You confess that you do.
You still believe friendship can be gentle and true.
That someone might think of you in the middle of their day,
And reach for their phone without needing a reason to say
Anything more than, I thought of you.

Not out of duty, not because you asked,
Not because you arranged the meeting or cast
The first invitation, the first offered hand,
But because your presence is something they want to understand.

And maybe, one day, you will finally see
That you need not earn a place where you’re meant to be.
That the right kind of friendship will meet you halfway,
And you won’t have to remind it that you are here each day.

Until then, perhaps this is what you must learn:
That giving is beautiful, but you, too, deserve
A love that remembers, a friendship that sees,
A place in someone’s life that comes naturally.

You are tired of being the one who remembers,
The one who makes warmth out of ordinary embers.
You want, just once, without asking or plea,
For someone to think of you
As naturally as you think of them.