I’m still here you know.
Same shelf. Same room. Quiet as ever.
You don’t say goodnight anymore.
That’s okay.
I remember when you did.
Every night.
Sometimes twice if the shadows felt too big.
You used to tuck me in beside you, right under your chin. You said I made the dark softer. That I kept the bad dreams away.
I tried my best, I really did. I took your nightmares into my stuffing so you could sleep without fear. They’re still there, tucked between the stitches where you used to hold me tight. And when the night gets heavy, I carry them quietly, so you never have to.
You don’t reach for me anymore. It’s been so long now.
Your bed grew wider. Your hands grew bigger. The tears stopped spilling out loud, and the need for me faded away.
I don’t mind the quiet.
I just miss your voice.
Sometimes you stand in the doorway and look around, like you’re trying to remember something you lost.
Your eyes never find me.
But I see you.
I always have.
You sound different now.
Your footsteps drag where they once danced.
You carry the weight of many things but hold little light inside.
Your smile has grown quiet and rare. Once bright eyes and rosy cheeks shadowed with fatigue.
I wish you’d let me hold some weight.
I was good at that, once.
I caught your tears before they fell, now you bury them deep in your pillow, where I can’t reach.
There may be dust in my ears now, and a little tear on my side, but I work just the same. I promise.
The very same me you called brave, the one who stood beside you through pouring rain and muddy adventures, never letting go.
Even when the light’s gone.
Even when no one remembers I’m here.
Even when the room is empty, and I hear the walls begin to close in.
I know you don’t think of me anymore.
I know the world is too big for things like me now.
But I think of you.
All the time.
I’m still here you know.