Include me out

Too often, life seems to be about missing people who don't actually miss us, but maybe it's just that... we miss them missing us, we miss them caring about us. In the end, why do we care? Do we care about them, or about us? Maybe we don't miss them in our lives, we just miss being part of theirs. Perhaps it is not even about not being missed, but rather about being replaced, being superfluous to their lives. Is it about love and friendship then, or about pride and possessiveness? In a way, we learn that, unique as we are, we are replacable. We will never count as much as we would like. Who are we to pretend otherwise? Who are we to say: I wish you had thought of me at that moment.