My supervisor’s habit of reassuring my unforgettableness (is that even a word?) sometimes fails at its task. “It’s not that I forgot about you,” she starts most of these conversations. I don’t blame her for forgetting my existence. I keep to myself. I shelve my books. I read my shelves. I weed books. I take down suggestions. It’s my god complex, I think. If you do things right, people aren’t sure if you do anything at all. “Keep your personal lives at the door,” she suggests to us during our department meeting. Keeping my personal life out of work is what I do best. If I didn’t, then I’d have people speaking in whispers about my failed relationship. And while I don’t really care…