Dear Nostalgia,

God, how you have ruined my life. Most people believe that nostalgia only hits you at old age, like Alzheimer’s, but no, it’s not like that. At least not for me. I take my precious time in every moment in hopes that life will move slower. That the space-time continuum will notice my tired eyes and say, “Maybe we should give her a break.”

Unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. I sit by myself in every classroom because I’m too busy thinking about the past to talk to another living being. And then I complain about being alone? God, I’m pathetic. But it’s not even my fault. It’s yours. It’s true, though, I am alone. I may be active in almost every club this school could offer and have great speech skills, but at the end of the day, I go home to an empty house and a dry phone.

I go home to texts from my mother saying, “I’ll be home in the morning,” and texts from my sister stating, “I’m staying out just a bit longer.” It makes me think of the past. The family we used to have. A full house and a happy home, laughing at each other while the TV blares the show we aren’t watching. It makes me think of when my mom would kiss us goodnight, and we would stay up another two hours, playing on the school computer Charlotte was issued three weeks ago.

In the present (the one my mind likes to neglect), as I make myself dinner, I miss the smell of my mother’s cooking. As I turn off the lights and turn on the TV, I miss the forts we would make in the living room while ignoring the movie we put on an hour ago. I find myself missing everything. Missing my life. The life I used to have before I grew up.

My parents think I’m crazy. My teachers think I’m quiet. My sister thinks I’m stupid. My friends, well, where are they? Probably with the friends they made an hour ago, when I was thinking about my past. While I was thinking about how we used to ask each other to hang out more than we would ask questions in school. While I was thinking about keeping my afternoon open, just in case they wanted to see me. While I was thinking about the friendships I had before the dark years. Before I was corrupted by social media. Before I was taken down by the fear bottled up inside me.

I think and think and think about people who don’t remember my name. I hope for their safety. I hope for their happiness. I want them to find sanctuary. I want them to find love. I want them to love me. Maybe I love too much, but I tend to feel love for the same people who haven’t seen or heard from me in years. Isn’t that ironic?

If I could list off the people, it would be longer than this letter. From afar, it looks like they are enjoying the world.  Far from nostalgia. Far from me. Because if nostalgia were taking over their life, they wouldn’t be living the way they are. They would be living like me.

I walk past the people I used to know and still remember everything about them in the hallways as they pretend I don’t exist. I regret not talking to them on the first day of freshman year; now it’s too late. So I won’t bother them with my nostalgia. This disease should only bother me.