Loneliness Lingers On

November keeps turning its back on me. The sun has hardly shone, and timid leaves have begun to fall. It is that time of the year when the air shifts into a pocket of aloofness and reminds me of who I was.

A few Novembers ago, I remember vividly, I was in love. Or so I thought– she saw through me, handpicked flowers and songs for our playlist, gifted me books on politics, and thought I was special. I miss who she saw in me.

The thing is, I miss you madly. I miss how warm you felt when you remembered how I liked my tea, or when you recited a favorite poem to me. I miss having someone like you around, someone who called my eyes “kind” and believed I’d rock the world one day. Now, I can barely get through the day. I broke your heart, and you were gone for good, though once you returned, I could feel you’d linger for long. But you vanished away, as quickly as you came. Now, only loneliness lingers on.

This air of grief is not alien to me, though. I have lost lovers and friends, I’d argue, way above the national average. One might think it gets easier as we grow old, but it actually stings more sharply, forming a nasty scab each time.

I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the taste of intimacy: how it feels to blush at sweet nothings, to laugh at myself, to share a meal, to blurt out every little detail of my day, to hug for a second longer, to hang out without scheduling it on a calendar. It’s the mundane joy of a “remember when?”, a “that’s so you!”, or an “it’s okay, I’m here now.” I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to trust someone to stay, and retreat like a soldier if they reach for me. (That’s a personal failure I’ve been told, which does ring a bell.)

This takes me back to the time when I was a naïve teenager, a not-so-self-aware girl. In part, I despise how impulsive and rash she was, but I also miss her zeal. She breezed through hurdles, believed firmly, and made every move an act of defiance; she brought me where I am today. She was easy to like and I outgrew her quickly, only to morph into a resentful, bloated, guilt-ridden woman.

Now, in this grand city, I sit here alone. Within the four walls of this beautiful building, I swallow the spark that kept me kicking. I sometimes tire of having to move through life, work diligently, care deeply for the world, and scroll past it. Knowing I, too, am watched and barely seen, I return home to an empty room.

It’s eerie how this is precisely what I’d dreamt of for years, though– ruminating in a room of my own, and striding into my twenties to the rhythm of my desires. And I do cherish the peace of an unbothered life, but this uncanny feeling is sticky as a wad of chewed gum.

For months, I’ve wanted to address my unbidden companion. Yet when I finally sat down, I couldn’t quite describe the feeling. I wondered— could I rid myself of it if those I’ve lost returned? In that moment of ugly self-reflection, I realized my loneliness stretches far beyond yearning for you; it’s become my state of being.

I suppose when one enjoys her work, lives in a gleaming city, devours fulfilling food, has folks to hold close, and yet feels the ache of something missing, it hardly matters what she calls it; so long as she chooses to face the truth. As for me? I’ll keep coming home to myself until I find her.