Permanently sewn in

People think a person is singular,
one name, one face, one mind.
But I think we are built like crowded rooms,
filled with every version we’ve ever been
and every person we’ve ever loved.

There is still a child in me
who laughs too loud at small things.
Still a frightened version
who hides inside silence.
Still someone shaped by old classrooms,
old songs,
old conversations I can’t fully forget.

We carry people with us constantly.
A mother’s warning becomes our inner voice.
A friend’s humor slips into our own laughter.
Someone we lost still exists
in the phrases we repeat without noticing.

Even strangers leave fingerprints behind.
The cashier who complimented your shirt,
the teacher who waited after class,
the person who held the door
on a day the world felt especially heavy.

None of us are entirely original.
We are stitched together
from memory and influence,
from grief and kindness,
from every soul that stayed long enough
to leave something behind.

Maybe that’s why losing people hurts so much.
It feels less like subtraction
and more like pieces of yourself
walking away.

And maybe that’s why meeting new people matters too.
Because somewhere inside them
could be a future version of you
you haven’t met yet.