On being the second choice

There’s a specific kind of ache that comes with being everyone’s second choice.

It’s not that I’m unloved. People care about me. They show up. They laugh at my jokes. They might even miss me when I’m gone — just not as much as they’d miss her. I’m not unwanted, I know that, but when someone’s deciding who to call, who to invite, who to choose, I’m never the first name on their list. And they may not even notice they’re doing it. But I do.

And what makes it worse is this: I know exactly what I would need to do to become their number one. I’ve seen the formula. I’ve watched them light up for someone louder, cooler, funnier, more interesting — everything I’m not. And deep down, I know I could do it. I could shift a little. Laugh a bit differently. Talk less. Dress more like them. Fade or shine, depending on what they want.

But to do that would mean betraying the self I’ve been fighting to build — the self that is finally starting to feel real. I’ve spent years learning how to be me, and the idea of erasing that for the comfort of being someone else’s first choice feels… hollow.

Yet there are moments when I see myself slipping.

I catch the shift in my voice, the way I hold back a thought or echo someone else’s. I play the character they’d love — not because I’m fake, but because I know exactly what would win them over. How do I know? Because I love them. I’ve listened to them. Remembered. I make it my mission to understand people deeply — what makes them laugh, what makes them ache, what they’re afraid to say out loud.

I’m the one who shows up when the night gets quiet and the weight is too much. I help them carry their pain, even when it cracks something inside of me. I’m the “deep” friend. The “wise” one. The emotional support. And I genuinely don’t mind being that for them.

But then they leave. Not dramatically, not cruelly. They just… drift.

They find their “fun” friends — the ones who make them forget the weight, not face it. The ones who didn’t lose sleep helping them through their pain. I become a chapter they close when the plot lightens. And it hurts. Not because I want to be everything to everyone. But because I gave something real — and they only wanted it temporarily.

I’m the person they come to when life breaks, but I’m not the one they call when they want to celebrate.

And the worst part?

I find myself wanting to become the version they’d want. I catch myself rehearsing joy. Smoothing over the edges of who I am. Because I think — maybe then, this time, they’ll stay.

So then I’m left with the question:

Is it worth it?

Is the pain of losing part of myself less than the pain of being constantly overlooked?

I love people so deeply it hurts. I show up fully. I remember the small things. I care in a way that leaves me open, vulnerable. But every time I give that kind of love, it echoes back quieter. Less urgent. Less intentional. Not because they’re cruel — but because they’re not me. And that’s the part that breaks me.

Love isn’t a transaction. I know that.

But sometimes it feels like I’m spending everything I have on people who only ever offer spare change in return.