It fascinates me how a single absence can ripple through a story like a pebble in a pond. If you remove 'you' — the figure who nudges the protagonist, argues with them, loves them, or haunts them — the hero's arc sometimes collapses inward or contorts into something darker. In one version, the protagonist might cling to old habits because there’s no external pressure to change; in another, they might grow up faster, forced by void to become more self-reliant. Emotionally, the scenes that once carried tenderness or tension lose their tonal anchor. A confession that used to land now feels hollow without the listener; a sacrifice loses some poignancy when the person it was for never existed.
Plot-wise, removing that presence shifts beats. Quests tied to helping or defending 'you' evaporate, which can leave gaping plot holes or open new paths — perhaps the protagonist turns inward to seek meaning, or gets recruited by someone else entirely. Antagonists who defined themselves against 'you' have to recalibrate; some rivalries simply fade, while others harden. I’ve noticed in stories I care about that dialogue gets shorter and silences longer; scenes meant to be warming instead underline loneliness. That can be powerful if the writer leans into it, turning absence into the theme, but it can also flatten the character if there isn’t another catalyst to push them.
On a personal note, I love imagining those alternate drafts — the protagonist who becomes stoic, or the one who flounders and learns belatedly. It teaches me to appreciate the small presences in fiction, those side characters who really are scaffolding for someone's growth. When 'you' vanishes, the story often reveals whether the protagonist’s core was truly theirs or borrowed from the relationship, and that revelation always leaves me thinking about what real people borrow from each other in life.