You’re Not the Only Main Character.

Okay, hello people. I have one small gist again so gather round. Before I go on, let me ask a quick question. When someone who usually reaches out starts acting withdrawn — not calling like before, not texting as much, not even showing up the way they used to — what’s the first thing that comes to your mind?

(a) They secretly hate you.

(b) Something terrible has happened to them.

(c) They don’t care that much.

(d) They’re just trying to survive adulthood without running mad which could be life’s problems, bills, and maybe even heartbreak.

If your answer is (a), (b), or (c), then please, pull your chair closer. This one is for you.

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The problem with this life is that everybody thinks they’re the main character. And in some ways, they are. Right now, Someone’s rent is due. Someone’s parent is sick, or maybe it’s them quietly battling their own health issues. Someone is cramming for an exam. Someone just failed one. Someone is broke. Someone’s scrolling job sites with restless fingers. Someone’s relationship just ended or about ending. Someone’s in a toxic workplace, calculating their exit or next move. Someone is lying awake at night, thinking, What do I do with my life now that I’ve graduated? How do I lock in? Someone else is juggling family expectations, side hustles, and the relentless pressure to “figure it all out.” Basically, everyone is starring in their own private movie production, some full of tension, heartbreak, hope, and quiet, invisible struggles.

We often get so wrapped up in our roles that we begin to imagine the whole cinema revolves around us. And when someone is acting a bit distant, we leap to conclusions. Do they hate me? Did I offend them? Or worse—did I simply not matter enough? Rarely do we pause to consider the quieter, simpler truth: maybe they are just trying to survive the weight of their own story.

For about two weeks now, I’ve felt.. off. Many people who read me on this app might have guessed from my recent notes. It’s been hard — hard in that way I can’t fully articulate without sounding like I'm being dramatic. And if you know me well, you know I have a coping mechanism: I watch and repost a lot of crazy TikToks. Funny, chaotic, absurd and sometimes a little unhinged. It’s how I breathe when life starts cooking and choking me.

So, the other day, a friend replied to one of my reposts. Her message went something like, “Madam, so you’re even online. I sent you a message on Whatsapp, you haven’t responded.” I texted back, “Yeah, but I’ve been inactive on WhatsApp. Sorry. What’s up??” She asked if she could call. I said yes.

The call was short, but I noticed something in her tone and it lingered. It wasn’t just small irritation — it was anger, quiet yet heavy at the same time. Anger like: you didn’t reach out, you didn’t check on me, you didn’t know what I've been going through, you didn’t this, you didn’t that. She even dropped a word that stung — selfish.

And I get it. I really do. Because life is hard, and she had been going through some things at home which I won’t unpack. And then the person she called — me — has also been going through it. Different storm, same drowning feeling. Life has been flinging things at me like a market woman tossing tomatoes, and most days I barely catch any. But I still show up, plaster on a smile, and let people believe I’m fine. Because sometimes it’s easier to pretend than to explain.

This morning, my friend Tega posted something I deeply resonated with. It’s exactly what I was trying to process since the day of that phone call.

That is the part we forget. Everybody else is also busy living inside their own chaos — their own bills, heartbreaks, exam stress, health scares, family drama. We get so wrapped up in our own little movies that we start to believe we’re the main character of the entire cinema. But we’re not. We’re just one screen in a multiplex of a billion screens, all playing simultaneously.

The problem is, when you forget this, pettiness creeps in. That tiny, toxic voice that says: “They didn’t text me, so I won’t text them. They didn’t check up, so I won’t check in.” Before you know it, you’re keeping score in a game nobody signed up for. And you start to believe silence equals neglect, when maybe silence just equals survival.

Still, here’s the paradox: yes, it’s unfair when someone doesn’t notice you’re drowning. But it’s equally unfair when you don’t notice them drowning either. And that mutual unfairness is exactly why kindness matters. Not performative kindness. The real, small, almost boring kindness that doesn’t cost much.

In this country, “you forgot me” is practically a love language. Some people even use it as a pick-up line. It’s how we joke, how we flirt, how we signal longing. Sometimes what you call forgetting is actually surviving. If you notice someone who usually reaches out hasn’t done it in a while, that’s your cue. That’s not the moment to sit back and sulk about being “forgotten.” It’s a red flag that something is probably wrong. Call them. Check in. Don’t wait for people to perform the kindness you keep demanding. That thing you always expect from others? Do it to them.

At the end of the day, none of us will escape being somebody’s villain. But at least, let neglect not be your trademark. Choose to show up. Choose to care. Because the world doesn’t revolve around you — but someone’s world might tilt, just a little, if you do.. Be the person who checks in, not just the one who waits to be checked on.

Everyone’s film is playing at the same time. We don’t have to understand every story but we can choose to give a little grace along the way. The best we can do is cut each other some slack and let people live their scenes.

Thanks for reading. ❤️