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.
Through the Fog 