I’ll Stay in the Background

(For the younger hearts who helped me breathe again)

They said they’d always be around,

those younger hearts with old souls.

I didn’t expect that to mean forever—

because I’ve heard promises before.

From voices that stayed long enough

to leave echoes, not presence.

Still…

Still I believed them.

Because their kindness wasn’t loud.

It didn’t come with fireworks or drama.

It lived in the quietest places—

In late-night calls,

In a shared laugh during chaos,

In a simple:

“Hey, how are you holding up?”

when I didn’t even realize I was drowning.

They didn’t know my whole story.

I didn’t tell them the full truth.

Not yet.

But somehow…

they understood enough to care anyway.

And their presence—

Oh God, their presence—

held me like no hug ever did.

You see, I was still bleeding

from something no one could see.

From a message

that changed my entire idea of safety.

A stranger. A screen.

A friendly “hi” that turned

into a twisted memory I couldn’t delete.

He sent me something vile.

Something sickening.

A picture—

his own, exposed, disgusting.

His pride.

My horror.

I felt impure,

shattered into invisible pieces

no one knew how to pick up.

Even I didn’t.

And every night since,

it haunted me.

Even after I blocked him.

Even after I screamed into my pillow.

Even after I tried to forget.

But forgetting doesn’t happen

just because you want it to.

Images burn deeper than memories.

They brand your innocence

with shadows.

I couldn’t tell my friends.

They had warned me not to talk to strangers.

They would be mad.

They would say,

“I told you so.”

Even if they didn’t mean to hurt me,

their words would have cut

what little strength I had left.

So I turned to Discord.

To people who didn’t know my past,

who didn’t see my shame.

And there—

in the least expected corner of the internet—

I found people who made the darkness

a little less heavy.

People who didn’t know what they were healing

but healed me anyway.

They were younger than me.

Still figuring life out.

But their kindness…

God, their kindness…

felt older than time.

Softer than pain.

Stronger than fear.

They joked.

They talked about silly things—

games, anime, songs, life,

their crushes, their awkward school moments.

And just listening to them

became therapy.

Just sitting there,

muted on a call,

while they laughed about the dumbest things—

was enough to stitch

some of my wounds shut.

They don’t know

that it was them

who pulled me back from those nights

when I would see that image in my head

and feel dirty again.

When I would close my eyes

and hear his voice asking,

“Are we still okay?”

after violating me.

They don’t know

how their late-night rants,

their chaos,

their group laughter,

gave my soul a chance to breathe.

I never told them.

I couldn’t.

Because I didn’t want them

to carry the weight

they never asked for.

I don’t want to become

someone they feel guilty for leaving.

They’re growing up.

They’re healing.

They’re finding people who love them back.

They’re building homes in others’ hearts—

homes I’ll never be a part of,

but homes I’ll always be happy exist.

And me?

I stay here.

A little older.

A little quieter.

Still smiling through the background.

Still cheering them on

from the other side of the screen.

I sit on calls and listen.

They laugh.

I laugh too—

but mine always lingers

a few seconds longer.

A little heavier.

Because I know—

I’m just a chapter in their story.

They are the whole book in mine.

I wish—

I truly wish—

I could tell them,

“You helped me stay alive.

You helped me feel okay

after someone made me feel like dirt.”

“You gave me peace

after I was violated

by a stranger’s pride

and my own silence.”

“You made it possible

to stop shaking at night.

To breathe again.

To not feel like I needed to punish myself

for what someone else did to me.”

But I won’t.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because they deserve to walk forward

without looking back.

One day, they’ll get older.

Graduate.

Fall in love.

Marry.

Start families.

Forget our server.

Forget my voice.

Forget those nights

we laughed at memes

and cursed lagging WiFi.

And I’ll smile.

From behind the screen.

Send them a blessing.

Cry a little.

But only in poems like this.

Because that’s my love language:

Staying silent

when I want to scream,

“I love you for saving me.”

Letting go

before they realize

they meant too much.

Being the river—

always moving,

always holding,

never crossed.

That’s me.

And they?

They’re the reason

the monster in my memory

doesn’t win anymore.

They’re the warmth

that replaced the horror.

The light

that filled the gap

he tried to leave empty.

So even if they never know—

even if I fade from their story—

just know,

if by some miracle they read this one day…

I meant it.

Every silent thank you.

Every invisible hug.

Every breath they gave me

just by existing.

I’ll stay in the background.

But I’ll love them forever.

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