They say the worst pain isn't when someone says they hate you.
It's when they act like you were never there to begin with.
It happened during the mentorship's final presentation. The school hall was packed—teachers, students, judges. I had practiced my speech ten times, added racing metaphors just to feel like me. I was ready.
And then Shabd stood up to introduce our team.
"Leading the junior group," he began confidently, "we have… um…"
He looked at me.
Paused.
My name didn't come.
"…uh, sorry," he chuckled politely, "I'm bad with names. The student from 6-D."
6-D.
That was it.
No "Vashti."
No "sharp girl."
No "Hitler," even.
Just a section.
I felt my cheeks burn hotter than an overheated engine.
I smiled through it—because Hitler Vashti doesn't cry in public—but inside, I was breaking into a thousand unspoken pieces.
He forgot me.
After all the late sessions. All the questions I asked just to hear his voice. All the invisible moments I stored in my scrapbook like gold.
I was… forgettable to him.
And that? That was worse than a rejection. Worse than the rose. Worse than anything.
After the presentation, he came over to say a casual "Good job" like it was a line from a textbook. I nodded.
But I didn't respond.
I went home, pulled out my scrapbook, and tore the page where I'd written "the first time he spoke to me."
Because maybe… maybe he never really did.
That night, I didn't draw a race track.
I drew a void.
And inside it, in tiny, shaky letters, I wrote:
"He forgot my name. But I'll never forget his."
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