Alone

I know how to be alone.

Maybe too well.

I know how to fill a room

with noise

so I don’t notice

there’s nobody in it.

How to leave the television on

just to hear another voice.

How to stare at my phone

without actually having

anyone I want to call.

I’ve learned

that loneliness

isn’t always about

having no one.

Sometimes

it’s lying beside someone

and feeling miles away.

Sometimes

it’s being surrounded

by people who know your name

but don’t know

what’s happening inside you.

Sometimes

it’s realizing

you’ve spent so much time

making yourself easy

for everyone else to handle

that nobody knows

the difficult parts of you

at all.

And maybe that’s why

being alone hurts differently now.

Because when everything

gets quiet,

there’s no performance.

No smile to hold up.

No conversation

to hide inside.

Just me.

And all the things

I’ve been avoiding.

The regrets.

The people I miss

but shouldn’t reach for.

The life I thought

I’d have by now.

The version of myself

I keep trying

to find my way back to.

Some nights

the silence feels peaceful.

Other nights

it feels like proof

that everyone eventually leaves.

I’m still learning

the difference.

Still learning

that solitude

isn’t rejection.

That an empty room

doesn’t mean

I’m unwanted.

That being alone

doesn’t have to mean

I’ve been abandoned.

Maybe there is something

to be found here.

In the quiet.

In finally hearing

my own voice

without everyone else’s

mixed into it.

Maybe I spent so long

being terrified

of ending up alone

that I never considered

I might need

to meet myself there.

So tonight

I’ll sit with the silence.

Not pretending

it doesn’t hurt.

Not pretending

I don’t wish

someone were here.

Just reminding myself—

alone

and unloved

were never

the same thing.