Forgotten Until I Left

On my birthday, my girlfriend Serena organized a trip to the amusement park for the five of us. When we got to the log flume, the four of them stepped right past me and took the whole front row. I froze for half a second, then said nothing and went to the second row on my own. As we plunged down the drop, all three girls cried out, "Kyle!" and threw themselves into his arms, laughing and squealing. I was still gripping the safety bar when, all at once, the three of them pulled out umbrellas and held them over their heads. The massive waterfall ahead shredded my poncho in seconds and drenched me from head to toe. Kyle turned around. "Adrian! Why don't you have an umbrella?" Serena and my two childhood friends exchanged a look and said nothing. But I knew. They'd forgotten. When we went hiking, they forgot me deep in the mountains, and I nearly got mauled to death by wolves. When we traveled, they forgot me on a train, and I ended up lost in a foreign country. A moment later, I stood in the restroom, staring at my soaked clothes and pale face, and let out a bitter laugh. If there was never room for me, I should've let go a long time ago.