Almost & Afterthoughts

There’s a quiet kind of grief that doesn’t make itself known right away.

It doesn’t shout or sob or announce its presence with a dramatic flair. It seeps in, gently, over time, like condensation on a window, fogging up the edges until you can no longer see clearly. It’s the grief of being loved… just not first. Not fiercely. Not urgently.

I’m surrounded by people. Friends, siblings, colleagues. People who hug me tightly when we say goodbye, who say “We must catch up soon!” and mean it, even if it never happens. People who do care. Who invite me sometimes. Who show up mostly.

But I’m not anyone’s favourite person.

I’m no one’s “first call.” Not the one someone calls in the middle of a crisis, or the one whose name gets blurted out when they’re asked, “Who’s your person?”

I’m not disliked. I’m just not essential.

And that hurts more than I think I let on.

I remember a dinner once, someone’s birthday, one of those long tables full of laughter and loud cutlery. The girl sitting beside me leaned over and whispered, “You’re so easy to be around, you’re like a comfort person.” I smiled. It was kind. But I also knew I was there because someone else cancelled. I was the “Oh, let’s ask her!” not the “We have to have her.” It wasn’t malice. Just the reality of being nice but not needed.

It’s not loneliness. Not really. I go to parties. I make people laugh. I’m part of conversations, even if I’m not the reason they started. I’ve been on dates, had little romances, had the occasional “You’re amazing, but…” moment like most women I know. I’m not invisible. I just feel… replaceable.

That’s a different kind of ache.

Not the ache of absence, but of almost. Of always being close to the centre, but never quite standing in it.

I used to ask myself: What am I doing wrong?

Too opinionated? Too soft? Too reserved until I’m not? Was I born with “supporting character energy” stitched into my DNA?

But eventually, I stopped asking. Because the answer isn’t about lacking value, it’s about accepting that not everyone sees what you bring in its fullness. Sometimes, you can be gold to someone who only recognises silver. That doesn’t make you less valuable. It just means their taste is off.

Still, let me be honest: there’s a cost to this kind of peace.

Yes, I’m spared the chaos. I don’t get entangled in messy dramas, I don’t endure breakup after breakup or arguments over things I said in a tone I didn’t mean. My life is quieter, simpler. No betrayals. No secrets. No whispered arguments outside clubs at 2am.

But I also don’t get the love songs.

I don’t get the “stay on the phone with me” conversations.

I don’t get the long, unfiltered voice notes full of thoughts no one else hears.

There’s no one who sees a book in a shop and thinks, She’d love this, and buys it just because. No one who calls just to hear my voice. No one who thinks of me as their first safe place to land.

And when you realise you’re not central to anyone, you learn to centre yourself.

You light candles for yourself. You pour the nice drink, wear the silk pyjamas, watch the film you love, even if no one else wants to see it. You show up to things, even if you weren’t really invited so much as… included. You learn to be proud of yourself when you walk into a room alone, and still manage to leave with warmth trailing behind you.

That’s not weakness. That’s not loneliness. That’s resilience.

And sure, some nights I still wonder what it would feel like to be someone’s first choice. To be seen in the way I see others. To be chosen, not as a backup plan or a convenience, but as the person they just couldn’t not choose.

But I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m not that person right now.

And peace, I’ve found, isn’t the same as joy. It’s steadier. Less sparkling. But reliable. And in a world that so often prizes being “wanted,” there’s something quietly radical about being content, even when you’re not picked first.

So no, I’m not anyone’s favourite.

But I am good.

I am kind.

I am still here, showing up, loving hard, and learning to treat myself the way I’ve always treated everyone else: with loyalty, softness, and grace.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.