N and I, cross-legged next to each other on the carpet in the hallway. "What's your biggest fear?" she asks. She is serious.

"Being forgotten," I say. I could tell her where this comes from, that I spent my life moving, changing schools, losing touch with friends, that in my teenage years and in my 20s I was only interested in the men who weren't interested back and that they always moved on, far more easily than I did. I could tell her that I have a near-photographic memory for experiences and remember everything and am hurt sometimes when others don't. I could tell her that I have worked at this, meditated on this. I know this is my ego, screaming out to be noticed. "Notice me, don't forget me." I could tell her that I know this is a natural process of life. People supposedly move on. Although I cringe just writing that statement. I could tell her that I am better now. I am okay with the idea of being forgotten for the most part. Most days of the year, I can handle it. And that I know that the people who love me won't forget me. And this is all that matters. I am afraid of people disappearing into the world, but maybe I am even more afraid of disappearing myself.

"Would you forget me?" I always ask the people I love. And it's a petty question. But my need to know the answer to this outweighs my embarrassment at asking it. I am not needy, I do not need anything from you. I can manage just fine. I am empathetic and I like to give, to care for those I love. But yes, there is a string attached. There is one thing I require of you: please don't forget me.