vos: fading away.

I’ve always known how to slip away, almost as if I were never there. At social events, I stood in the corner, not knowing what to say or do. I’d wait until I could quietly leave without anyone noticing. In many cultures, that might be seen as rude, but for me fading away wasn’t about disrespect. It just became part of my pattern. The habit of pulling back, of vanishing, of stepping off to the side because it felt easier than staying in it.

Even before I could fully explain it, I tried to put the feeling into words. Years ago, I wrote a lyric:

don’t you mind if i disappear for a while

just so i can find my own reason to smile

maybe i’ll see you in another chapter of my life

or you’ll find me in a new novel where things seem right

At the time, it wasn’t just about pain. It was about removing myself and hoping to return as a better me. However, as time passed, I began to wonder if that version was feasible, or if it was even worth revisiting in the first place.

Looking back, I can see how fading became a pattern I relied on. It was a matter of survival, even if it came at a cost. Each time I slipped away, I lost connections I wanted to keep. Friendships dissolved, and ties weakened.

Each return left me with less to come back to. Eventually, I had to accept that this was part of who I am. Fading is what I do, and it’s how I’ve gotten by.

It’s not just in physical spaces either. It shows up in texting, where days slip into weeks and months. Messages are left unanswered because I don’t know what to say, or I convince myself it’s already too late.

Then the anxiety builds: should I reply at all? Will they care if I do, or just be upset that I waited so long? Sometimes I think my silence has said everything for me.

That pattern doesn’t just live in unread messages. Sometimes it changes the course of real connections before they even begin. Not long ago, I met someone I thought I could connect with. We were close in age, both looking for new friendships. I was transparent about how work had been overwhelming, and how I still wanted to build connections. But during those weeks, I wasn’t replying the way I should have, and eventually he texted me:

hey, it sounds like you’re a busy guy. it would be cool to hang out with you, but apparently this isn’t going to work out.

When I apologized, he only said:

well it would be cool, but it sounds like you’re too busy for me.

And that was it. We stopped texting after that, because it felt like I was trying to convince a stranger to keep talking to me when we hadn’t even had the chance to build something genuine. Maybe I wasn’t enough of a friend at that time. Or perhaps we just weren’t a good fit. But sometimes I wonder if anybody is.

Disappearing isn’t always about chasing freedom. Sometimes it’s just about escaping the weight of everything for long enough to breathe.

And yet, even with all the fading, some moments tether me to the present. My cats, for example, are the only beings in my life who make me want to cry from joy. They look at me as if I’m worth existing. My older tuxedo cat, Midnight, runs up to my car when I pull into my apartment complex. If I don’t exit my vehicle in a certain amount of time, he hops on the roof and stares into the window just to greet me. Lennon, my Maine Coon who’s still just a year or two old, screams from across the courtyard and races upstairs when I come home. Both were adopted as strays, which means even more that they chose to stay. Sometimes I joke it’s only for the food, but I know it’s more than that. Midnight jumps on my bed and lies on my lap while I watch television or play video games. Lennon is the definition of loyal in a cat’s form.

That’s one of the real reasons I’m still here. Because in their eyes, I’m already enough. And maybe that’s the beginning of a new page I hadn’t expected to write.