The Art of Feeling Left Out

By Shireen Rashid

it’s not a scream, it’s not a storm,

it’s softer than the things they say—

it’s empty chairs in crowded rooms,

it’s being loved a step away.

it’s watching petals fall from trees

you watered when no one could see.

they bloom for someone else in spring—

you learn to clap silently.

it’s talking like the wind does, low,

your words dissolve mid-air, unheard.

you write your name in cloudy glass,

and time erases every word.

it’s laughing late to match their beat,

and dancing where the music fades,

pretending silence is enough

while shrinking in the light you gave.

you learn to keep your shadows close,

to hold your tongue like breaking glass,

to wear your sorrow like perfume—

just strong enough for it to pass.

it’s rain that stains but doesn’t pour,

it’s thunder that forgets your name,

a sky too golden to admit

you’ve only known its colder flame.

they don’t forget you all at once—

just piece by piece, like dusk to night.

you stay, but slowly fade to grey

in rooms still flickering with light.

and that’s the art they’ll never learn:

how you can cry without a sound,

how feeling left out isn’t loud—

it’s just not being looked around.

By Shireen Rashid