The one who stayed.
I was told I was lucky
to be born last,
to arrive when love was already practiced,
when hands knew how to hold.
But no one tells you
that being the youngest
means loving quietly,
means learning early
how to stay.
The house still knows my name.
It calls me when the lights go out,
when my parents fall asleep
a little earlier than they used to.
I listen to their breathing
like a promise I’m afraid to break.
My sisters leave pieces of themselves here—
childhood photos, spare clothes,
memories that don’t move anymore.
They take the rest with them.
I help them pack.
I always help them pack.
I tell myself I’m happy for them.
I am.
I swear I am.
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But some nights,
I imagine who I could’ve been
in a city that doesn’t need me,
under a sky that never asked me to choose.
I dream in another language,
then wake up fluent in responsibility.
They say, “You’ll understand someday.”
As if understanding makes it lighter.
As if love should feel like this—
like holding your breath
so everyone else can breathe.
So I stay.
I become dependable.
I become the one who’s always here.
The one who doesn’t ask for much
because wanting feels selfish
when everyone is tired.
I learn how to smile
with my dreams folded small in my chest.
I learn how to say it’s okay
even when it isn’t.
Maybe one day
I’ll forgive myself
for wanting more.
Maybe one day
staying won’t feel like leaving myself behind.
But tonight,
I let the truth sit beside me:
I didn’t choose this.
I just loved them enough
to lose myself quietly.
