Through the Fog

Tag: loneliness

  • Alone

    Photo by Noah Silliman

    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.

  • The Things I Don’t Say

    There are things

    I don’t say out loud—

    not because I don’t feel them,

    but because once words exist

    outside of me,

    they become harder

    to survive.

    So I keep them buried.

    The anger

    that never fully leaves.

    The loneliness

    that shows up

    even in crowded rooms.

    The fear

    that maybe I’ve spent so long

    pretending to be okay

    I forgot how to actually be it.

    People think silence

    means peace.

    They don’t realize

    silence can also mean

    containment.

    A dam holding back

    everything

    I don’t trust myself

    to release.

    Because I know

    what happens

    when pain spills over.

    How quickly

    it can ruin a moment,

    a relationship,

    an entire version

    of yourself.

    So I swallow it.

    Turn it inward.

    Carry it quietly

    until it becomes

    part of my posture.

    And still—

    some part of me

    wants to be understood.

    Not fixed.

    Not rescued.

    Just seen

    without having to translate

    every wound

    into something easier

    for other people to hold.

    Maybe that’s why I write.

    Because paper

    doesn’t flinch.

    And poems

    don’t ask me

    to make the truth

    sound prettier

    than it is.

  • Bottom of the Sea

    I feel like I’ve been sinking

    for so long

    the bottom of the sea

    started feeling familiar.

    No sunlight here.

    No noise.

    Just pressure—

    constant, crushing,

    quiet enough

    to make you forget

    what breathing freely

    used to feel like.

    At first

    I fought it.

    Kicked toward the surface,

    reached for light,

    told myself

    I wasn’t meant

    to stay this deep.

    But exhaustion

    changes things.

    Eventually

    you stop fighting

    what keeps pulling you under.

    You let the dark

    wrap around you

    like something almost comforting.

    And that’s the dangerous part—

    how pain

    can become home

    if you live in it long enough.

    How loneliness

    starts sounding like peace.

    How silence

    starts feeling safer

    than hope.

    But somewhere

    beneath all this weight,

    beneath the wreckage

    and the parts of me

    that settled here years ago—

    there’s still movement.

    Still a pulse.

    Still something inside me

    remembering

    there’s a surface

    above all this.

    And maybe

    I haven’t drowned yet.

    Maybe

    I’m just lost

    deep enough

    to forget

    I was built

    to rise.

  • Chasing Echoes in the Dark

    I’ve been chasing echoes

    in the dark—

    old voices,

    old versions of love,

    old wounds

    that still know

    how to call my name.

    Reaching for things

    that aren’t there anymore

    but somehow

    still feel close enough

    to touch.

    That’s the cruelty of echoes.

    They sound real.

    Familiar enough

    to make you turn around,

    to make you wonder

    if maybe this time

    something lost

    found its way back.

    But it never does.

    It’s just the sound

    of what already happened

    bouncing off empty places

    inside you.

    And still—

    I chase it.

    The memory

    of what was said.

    The silence

    of what wasn’t.

    The version of people

    I keep rebuilding

    from fragments

    because the truth

    feels harder to hold.

    Maybe I’m not chasing them.

    Maybe I’m chasing

    who I was

    before they became

    an echo.

    Before everything meaningful

    started sounding

    like distance.

    But the dark

    doesn’t return

    what it takes.

    It just teaches you

    how easy it is

    to mistake loneliness

    for something calling you home.

  • Unread

    The room is quiet

    in the way empty places breathe—

    soft, patient,

    like they already know

    no one is coming.

    Your name glows

    on the dark screen in my hands,

    a small white light

    that promises nothing.

    I tell myself

    silence doesn’t mean absence.

    That people have lives

    beyond the reach of my fears.

    But loneliness

    is a skilled storyteller.

    It takes a single unanswered message

    and builds a whole ending from it—

    a story where I was too much,

    or not enough,

    or simply forgettable.

    The minutes stretch thin.

    The night settles deeper.

    Across the room

    an empty chair waits

    like someone once meant to sit there.

    And I wonder

    how something so small—

    a pause,

    a delay,

    a quiet space between words—

    can echo so loudly

    in a heart

    that’s still learning

    how to believe

    someone might stay.

  • Perceived Abandonment

    It’s strange how loneliness can make you believe you’ve been abandoned, even when no one’s gone anywhere.

    It creeps in quietly — not as an event, but as a feeling.

    A hollow shift inside the chest, a soft whisper that says they don’t care anymore, even when they do.

    I know it’s not true.

    But in the moments when silence stretches too long,

    when messages go unread and days pile up in quiet stacks,

    it feels like proof.

    Proof that I’m too much, or not enough, or somehow both at once.

    It’s the oldest wound — that fear of being left behind.

    Not just by people, but by life itself.

    You start to think maybe everyone else got the map,

    and you were born to wander lost.

    I’ve learned that perceived abandonment isn’t about others leaving.

    It’s about the part of me that still believes love is temporary,

    that care has an expiration date,

    that any warmth will eventually fade.

    So I brace myself for endings that haven’t even begun.

    I pull away before anyone has a chance to.

    And then I call it loneliness, when really it’s just fear —

    the quiet kind that pretends it’s truth.

    But loneliness doesn’t mean I’ve been abandoned.

    It means I’m here, still longing, still feeling, still alive enough to miss something.

    And maybe that’s not weakness.

    Maybe that’s the part of me still hoping

    someone will stay long enough to prove my heart wrong.

  • Missing You

    I didn’t think being away would feel like this —

    like living in a pause.

    The world keeps spinning,

    and I’m somewhere outside of it,

    trying to remember how to breathe again.

    They say this is where healing happens,

    but no one tells you that healing can feel

    a lot like breaking in private.

    Like tearing down the parts of yourself

    you built just to survive.

    I miss you in the quiet moments —

    in the slow mornings when the walls hum softly,

    in the long nights where time forgets how to move.

    It’s not just your voice I miss,

    it’s the way your presence steadied me,

    the way your silence felt like understanding.

    Some days, I want to tell you everything —

    how it hurts to be here,

    how it’s lonely even surrounded by people,

    how I’m learning to sit with the pieces of myself

    I used to keep buried.

    But I know I’m here for a reason.

    I know I have to face the dark before I can find the light again.

    Still, I carry you with me —

    in every small step, every shaky breath,

    every promise that I’ll come back whole.

    Missing you isn’t weakness.

    It’s proof that I’m still capable of love,

    even while learning how to love myself again.

  • Sometimes We’re Broken and We Don’t Know Why

    Sometimes we’re broken

    and we don’t know why—

    there’s no moment to point to,

    no sharp edge we tripped over,

    no memory that explains

    the heaviness we wake up with.

    Some wounds aren’t from events,

    but from seasons.

    From slow storms

    that soaked us through

    before we even realized

    we were standing in the rain.

    Sometimes the sadness

    isn’t loud or dramatic—

    it’s quiet,

    a small tear in the soul

    that widens over time

    until the light slips through

    and we mistake it for emptiness.

    We say we’re fine

    because nothing “bad” happened,

    but our hearts ache anyway,

    caught between the person we were

    and the one we’re trying to become.

    And maybe that’s the truth—

    maybe being broken

    doesn’t always have a reason.

    Maybe sometimes

    the heart just gets tired

    from carrying everything alone.

    But even then,

    even in that quiet unraveling,

    you’re not beyond repair.

    You’re just learning yourself

    in the hardest way—

    piece by fragile piece,

    pain by honest pain.

    And one day,

    the why won’t matter

    as much as the fact

    that you made it through

    without needing an answer.

  • When the Nights Get Heavy

    Dear God, please—

    I’m trying to hold myself together

    with hands that won’t stop shaking.

    The nights get long,

    the thoughts get heavy,

    and the world feels too sharp

    for a heart this soft.

    Dear God, please—

    quiet the noise in my head

    before it swallows the parts of me

    I’m still trying to save.

    I’ve been running from shadows

    that look too much like my past,

    and I’m tired of losing sleep

    to memories that won’t stay buried.

    Dear God, please—

    remind me I’m not alone

    when I’m convinced I am.

    Remind me You see something in me

    I’ve never been brave enough to believe.

    Hold me when I fall apart,

    even if all I bring You

    is the wreckage of another long night.

    Dear God, please—

    don’t let go.

    Not now.

    Not when I’m this close

    to breaking or becoming—

    I don’t even know which anymore.

    Just stay.

    Just guide.

    Just breathe with me

    until I can breathe again.

    Dear God, please.

  • Twice as Hard

    Love is tough—

    it asks you to show up

    even when you’re scared,

    to stay open

    when closing would hurt less.

    Love risks rejection.

    Misunderstanding.

    The quiet fear

    that giving your heart away

    means losing parts of yourself.

    But loneliness—

    loneliness is twice as hard.

    It doesn’t argue with you.

    It doesn’t leave suddenly.

    It just settles in,

    fills the space where voices used to be,

    teaches the walls your name.

    Loneliness makes everything heavier.

    Decisions.

    Nights.

    The sound of your own thoughts

    when there’s no one to interrupt them.

    At least love gives something back—

    warmth,

    connection,

    the chance to be known,

    even if it doesn’t last.

    Loneliness gives nothing.

    It only takes.

    Time.

    Energy.

    The belief that you matter to someone

    outside your own head.

    So yes, love is difficult.

    Messy.

    Risky.

    But loneliness is harder—

    because there’s no one to hold your hand

    through it,

    no one to remind you

    you’re still here,

    still seen,

    still worth choosing.