Forgettable Characters (Or So I Thought)

Recently, I have started paying more attention to the side characters in the stories I entertain myself with. This shift largely stemmed from experimenting with my own process of comprehension by incorporating the idea of speed reading. The promise of consuming more in less time has always felt irresistibly alluring. Interestingly, the moment I began looking for techniques to achieve this, my mind instinctively tilted toward one end of the scale… focusing on keywords in a sentence while quietly rationalising the act of skipping side characters altogether.

The ubiquitous noise in my head soon turned into a relentless dismissal of their presence. Most of them exist in a state of near banality within the fictional worlds I dip my toes into. They are often assigned roles that feel largely gratuitous and easily effaceable. And let’s face it… most of us want to see the protagonist bask in the glory of their success at the end of a story, not some plot-supporting character merely trying to survive… which they often don’t, btw.

And so, the seed of an idea was quietly sown in my head. Why shouldn’t I simply sacrifice these seemingly forgettable characters in pursuit of faster consumption of stories… so that I could accommodate even more of them, a craving I had long carried?

*

Thinking about side characters almost instinctively displaced me sixteen years back in time. I was a transfer student, anxiously walking through the corridor, trying to locate my classroom on the first day. Along the way, I exchanged hesitant nods and fragments of small talk, piecing together directions as I went. When I finally entered the room, I was put at ease by the fact that I was the first student to arrive. I settled near a window that faced one of the school’s entry gates and quietly prepared myself for the attention I expected to attract… the inevitable scrutiny that came with being a new addition to a tightly knit group.

Out of everyone I interacted with that day, one person stood out unmistakably. He was the chirpiest, most energetic, and unquestionably the loudest presence in the room. Whenever he spoke to me, I was certain that two benches ahead and two behind caught every word. He offered me his notebooks, aware that I was joining the batch mid-year, so I could catch up on my pending work. He also made it a point to mention, more than once, that he was among the highest-scoring students… a credential he seemed convinced would earn my trust.

We became friends. Not best friends, certainly. In my mind, he remained a side character at best. Restless, perpetually inviting trouble, teasing boys twice his size, sprinting about without purpose, tripping, crying, and moments later returning to his familiar volume. That, as far as I was concerned, was the extent of his role in the main-character narrative of my life.

The school itself felt mammoth compared to my previous one. The sheer number of students in each class exceeded anything I had known before. There were so many people to meet, so many interactions to navigate, that time itself began to feel scarce. I made a deliberate effort to engage with as many people as I could, and in doing so, his loud presence slowly receded into the background.

It wasn’t him. It was me.

I had created a careful distance, driven by a desire to be taken more seriously than he ever was. From that distance, I occasionally noticed him being bullied and, at times, physically confronted. Each time I asked him about these incidents, he admitted that he had provoked the other party in one way or another. What a guy, I would think, unable to make sense of him, before walking away… content to preserve my distance from what I had come to regard as a nuisance, to the point where forgetting his existence felt effortless. I did not have to wait long to test that thesis; he, too, was a transfer student, and he left a year after I had joined… and within a span of a few days, I did forget about him.

*

Imagine someone banging on a door from the inside of a room. The person sitting on the outside with his back against the door has two options, either open the door and face whatever the universe knows comes next or get up and walk away to momentarily protect their peace.

I chose to walk away. Not my circus, Not my monkeys.

*

Three years passed, and it was time for me to move on to another school. This transition proved far more difficult than the last. I was a teenager now, and adolescent relationships are inherently fragile. The friendships formed during those years are unlike any others. When one is young, friendships often feel replaceable… there appears to be ample time ahead to find better people. In adulthood, however, responsibilities pile up, leaving little space or energy to invest in new bonds.

The teenage years occupy a rare middle ground. One begins to imagine what the world might look like, sketching early outlines of the future. A loose framework is handed to us, which we quietly reshape into our own understanding of how adult relationships might take root and endure.

Once again, I was asked to start afresh, this time in a different country from where my previous school existed. Distance only compounded the loss. My friends lost me gradually while I lost my entire group in a single, abrupt sweep. It was perhaps my first real encounter with how unfair life can feel… being dealt a hand you never asked for, yet still expected to play.

With time, the endless chats with my old friends began to feel terminal. Quick replies stretched into weekly check-ins, eventually reduced to birthday wishes… which we sometimes forgot altogether. My mind quietly accepted this erosion as the new normal. For the first time ever, instead of feeling like the main character, I felt like a forgotten side character in my friends’ lives. Investing in friendships started to feel unnecessary, trapping me in a slow, self-perpetuating loneliness. I retreated into routine… going to school, completing assignments diligently, and keeping my interactions with peers to a bare minimum.

Just when I had resigned myself to the idea that I might eventually lose my marbles… incapable of forming lasting bonds, my phone rang. The screen lit up with an unfamiliar number, one I had ignored for months. Irritated, I answered.

What greeted me was a voice I knew instantly… chirpy, energetic, and unmistakably the loudest presence in my life at that moment, laced generously with every curse imaginable. He didn’t need to introduce himself. I knew. Years had passed since we last spoke, yet not once did he make it feel that way.

I sighed, already knowing what would follow. He started knocking on my door… again and again, day after day. Every instinct urged me to walk away, to preserve the distance I had perfected. But this time, I chose differently. Things, after all, could only go up from here.

When I finally opened the door, I felt a quiet peace I had long blamed myself for being incapable of experiencing. He stood there… patient, unguarded, willing to see what I had to show, willing to listen to what I had to say. And in that moment, it became painfully clear that we were chasing the same thing all along.

To be seen. To be heard. And to not be left forgotten.

*

When I revisited the episode I have just shared with you… publicly, for the first time, it felt like a quiet tug on my shoulder, pulling me back from a blind leap driven by the allure of speed reading and the temptation to consume more stories in less time. Side characters, I realised, are far too valuable to be sacrificed at the altar of efficiency.

In the end, it is all a matter of perspective, isn’t it? Even when we imagine a familiar scene… a conventional protagonist basking in the glow of success, it is the unwavering presence of the supporting characters, standing by through triumph and ruin alike, that deepens the moment and gives it weight.

So who are we to decide who is a side character? The one under the spotlight at any given moment simply becomes the main character. And who are we to decide who is forgettable? Whom we remember, and whom we choose to forget, speaks far more about our own characters than about those subjected to our judgment.

Honestly, I would rather take an extra day to immerse myself in the ebbs and flows of a story than rush through it… and miss the depth that every character, together, brings to life.

*

He is not just a friend now. He is my best friend. The calls never really stopped. And since that day, neither of us has had to bang on the other’s door. The doors have stayed open… not flung wide, not forced, just open enough for us to walk through whenever we want.

I am certain that when I message him to tell him I have written this piece about him, and that I have called him a “forgotten character” more times than I probably should have, he will laugh. Loudly, of course. And then he will say,

“Had I been a forgotten character in your life, you wouldn’t be awake at 4:23 a.m., writing it.”
To which I will reply,
“Had to do it… you’re one of the most precious monkeys in this carefully crafted circus of mine, after all.”

And if you’ve made it this far into this little letter of mine, thank you. Truly. Take one more step and tell me what you thought of this article. Whether it’s a single line or a long message… I’d love to know. So yes, your response matters deeply to me.

Find me on Instagram at @ankeshkprasad or drop me an email at [email protected]. I try to read and respond to every message because your words matter to me more than you know.

If you haven’t already, please do check out my debut psychological thriller fiction novel, They Would Die For You!
Available now in both Paperback and Kindle editions.