I feel like other people maybe have a bigger impact on me than I do on them. I adore humanity, so I tend to hold on to whoever and whatever I can. The memories, experiences, and feelings I share with another person affect me so much. They help me change and grow, molding me into a better version of myself. I think other people are so wonderful and valuable and special, even if they weren’t the nicest to me. I think about them often, and am always thankful for the time we had together. Or, at the very least, thankful for the lessons I learned from them. A part of me will miss them forever; once you’re important to me, you stay that way, however much. I still have love for everyone I’ve ever cared about, all circumstances aside. But I can’t imagine anyone feeling the same in regards to me. It’s like I’m a speck of dust on the floor of a big house, something to overlook. A word in their vocabulary that isn’t spoken often. A fleeting moment that they won’t dwell on. A temporary character, someone they’re ready to leave behind. I can’t fathom someone remembering me once we exit each other’s lives, like all I am is forgettable. It doesn’t bother me too much, I guess, because you’re supposed to move on. That’s how it is. I just hope the people I’ve met got something positive or meaningful out of their time with me.
