Loneliness lies down in bed before I do.Before I pull back the covers,before I fix the pillow under my head,it has already taken my place.
Even on days when I held myself together,the moment I lie down, I remember.No one called my name today.
My phone is silent.The ceiling feels higher than I thought.And when I turn off the lights,it feels like the whole world has closed its door, leaving only me behind.
So I reach for the remote,and fall asleep with the television on again.The volume stays at one barely a whisperjust enough to remind me I'm not completely alone.
The softest place in the houseis weighed down by the heaviest feeling.
Loneliness is quiet.It doesn't pace like anxiety.It doesn't erupt like anger.It presses down,deep and still.
People say loneliness is just a passing feeling.But I know better.It's not passing.It's a habit.
When it becomes familiar,it sometimes feels like comfort.And even now,after all this time,I still haven't grown immune to it.
At some point,being alone at night starts to feel normal."Alone again, huh?"Loneliness doesn't ask that question because it already knows the answer.And that's what hurts more.
But now,I try to share its weight.To treat my solitude as stillness, not isolation.To wrap myself in my own arms,even if there's no one else.
When I pull the blanket over me,I don't try to push loneliness away.I talk to it instead."Alright. Let's sleep together tonight."
And when I say that,loneliness feels a little less cold beside me.