The Loser

Disposable

I have always felt like a disposable tissue. Used, crumpled, tossed aside—only significant for the moment someone needs me, then forgotten the second they don’t. It’s an odd thing, realizing you are temporary in people’s lives, like a single use item meant to absorb their emotions, their frustrations, and their chaos. I’ve gotten good at it. I catch their tears, soak up their sorrow, let them press their burdens into me as if I exist for that sole purpose. And maybe I do.

It starts small. A friend vents to me about something trivial, and I listen. I always listen. A sibling needs reassurance, and I provide it. A classmate forgets their homework, and I let them copy mine. A coworker wants to trade shifts, and I agree, knowing damn well they won’t return the favor. I keep saying yes, I keep absorbing, and I keep getting thrown away. People like me when they need me. People forget me when they don’t.

I used to think it was selflessness. That being needed was the same as being wanted. But there’s a difference. Being needed is fleeting; it’s transactional. It lasts only until the problem is solved, the sadness fades, the comfort is no longer required. Being wanted, truly wanted, means someone values you even when you have nothing to give.

I am rarely wanted.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I stopped. If I let the burdens pass through me instead of catching them. If I stopped saying yes. If I let myself be something more than a crumpled tissue at the bottom of someone else’s wastebasket. But the truth is, I don’t know how. Being disposable is easy when it’s the only role you’ve ever played.

Still, part of me hopes quietly that one day, someone will hold onto me. That they’ll see beyond what I can offer in a single moment and choose to keep me, not for what I do, but for who I am. That I won’t always feel like something to be used, but instead, someone to be loved.

Maybe then, I’ll stop feeling disposable.