Gravity

I used to be a magnet.

People, places, laughter—they were drawn to me. I don’t know how or why, but they came. Slowly, over time, I gathered them, one by one, and built something. Not a house, not a fortune… but a universe. My own. Small, but full. Each person a star. Each moment a planet orbiting the story of my life.

And what a symphony it was.

The cries of newborns, the crackle of firewood, the hum of a favorite song through the radio on long drives home. Arguments, reconciliations. First kisses. Last goodbyes. Every note played its part, discord and harmony, together.

I found purpose in the pulling-in. In being needed. In remembering. In being remembered.

But now... that universe is dimming.

I forget the planets. The stars flicker and fade. The music distorts. I feel them still—somewhere—but their names, their details, slip through my hands like sand. My joys, my regrets, my sins… the things that shaped me… they vanish like breath on glass.

The tragedy isn't that I forgot. It’s that I knew.

I knew love. I knew pain. I knew the weight of a life lived with both. And now, knowing leaves me—bit by bit—until all that remains is the pull of something I can no longer name.

Still… somewhere inside, I hope the magnet holds.

That even if I can’t remember my life, someone out there remembers me.