The Last Trace of Me

I don’t know if it’s the silence that keeps me awake at night or the fear of it. Sometimes, I think they’re the same thing. Silence doesn’t just mean quiet, it means absence. It means no one is left to call your name, no one remembers the sound of your voice or the way you used to laugh when the world still felt kind. Silence is Oblivion’s shadow, creeping in when no one’s looking.

My name is Rina. I say it to myself sometimes, just to hear it. To remind myself that it exists. Rina. It’s soft, a name that doesn’t demand attention. I wonder if it’s the kind of name someone would forget easily.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to be loud. I used to think the world was big enough for everyone, that my small life would leave its mark somewhere. But lately, it feels like the world is shrinking, like the spaces I fill are getting smaller and smaller. I look in the mirror sometimes and wonder if I’m already starting to fade.

I think it started with my grandmother. She had a laugh that sounded like the ringing of bells, clear and full of joy. I loved her more than anything. She used to tell me stories when I was little, tales about queens who saved kingdoms and stars that never stopped burning.

“Even the smallest star leaves its light behind,” she’d say, brushing my hair back from my face.

But then, one day, she forgot my name.

It wasn’t her fault. Alzheimer’s doesn’t ask permission before it takes someone away from you. But when she looked at me with those blank eyes, I felt something break inside me. I tried to remind her.

“It’s me, Rina, your little star!”

But the harder I held on, the more she slipped away. By the end, she couldn’t even remember her own stories.

That’s when I realized what Oblivion really is. It’s not just about being forgotten by the world. It’s about being forgotten by the people who once held you closest. It’s about watching the ties that tether you to existence unravel, one memory at a time.

Now, every day feels like a battle against you, Oblivion. I wonder how people can live so carelessly, as if they don’t fear being erased. How do they laugh without worrying that one day, no one will remember the sound? How do they love without fearing that love will vanish like smoke in the air?

I tried to talk to my best friend, Julie, about it once.

“Do you ever think about what happens after we’re gone?” I asked her. She gave me one of her soft, patient smiles, the kind that makes you feel like you’re asking too much of the world.

“Rina, you think too much,” she said. “No one really disappears. People leave pieces of themselves behind. Stories. Memories. Love. Isn’t that enough?”

I didn’t tell her it wasn’t enough. Not for me.

There’s this dream I keep having. I’m standing in a vast field, surrounded by wildflowers that stretch as far as the eye can see. The sky is gray, heavy with clouds that don’t seem to move. In the distance, I can hear voices, soft, murmuring, familiar. I try to call out, but no sound comes. The flowers start to wilt beneath my feet, their petals crumbling into ash.

And then I wake up, my chest tight, my throat dry.

They say a person dies twice, once when they stop breathing, and again when the last person who remembers them forgets. It’s that second death that haunts me the most. The one that slips in unnoticed, quiet as the dark. The first death, when your body goes cold and still, is final. But the second one, the fading, and the erasing, it's like being lost in a room full of people, and no one even remembers you were ever there.

 I saw it happen to my grandmother. The way her eyes grew empty, and the name she once said with love was suddenly unfamiliar to her. It’s the kind of death you can’t fight. No matter how much you try to hold on, no matter how much you scream inside, the world moves on, forgetting. And I fear that when my time comes and when Oblivion finally finds me, I’ll slip away without a trace. I’ll become just another whisper, another name lost to time.

I’ve started writing letters to the people I love, just in case. I don’t know if they’ll ever read them, but the thought of leaving something behind gives me a strange kind of comfort. I tell them about the things I remember, the moments that made life feel real. I tell Julie about the time we stayed up all night watching the stars, naming constellations we didn’t even know existed. I tell my parents about the afternoons I spent in their kitchen, listening to the sound of their laughter mingling with the smell of spices.

And I tell myself that maybe this is enough. Maybe leaving pieces of myself in ink and paper will keep me here, even when I’m gone.

But then I think about my grandmother again. I think about how she used to tell me that stars never stop shining, only to forget her own light in the end. I wonder if that’s the cruelest part of all. Not being forgotten by others, but forgetting yourself.

Oblivion, if you’re listening, I need to ask you something. Why are you so patient? Why do you wait so quietly, letting us build lives and memories, only to take them away when we least expect it? Do you ever regret it? Do you ever look at the things you’ve taken and feel the weight of them pressing down on you?

I wish I could tell you I’m not afraid of you. But I am.

Until the day you come for me, though, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep laughing and loving and carving my name into the hearts of the people I hold closest. And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough to keep you at bay.

But for now, I’ll keep whispering my name in the dark, hoping someone else is listening.