31 October 2025
It started like any other day routine, unremarkable, predictable. I went to college. Not because I was excited, but because it's what I'm supposed to do. The morning air was cool, the kind that brushes against your skin like a quiet reminder that the world keeps turning, whether you're ready or not. I slipped on my headphones before stepping out, not to listen to music for joy, but to build a wall. Songs became my buffer against the noise of people who don't see me, against the silence of those who could but choose not to.
I listened to songs that felt like echoes of my own thoughts melancholic melodies wrapped in lyrics that somehow knew exactly how invisible I felt. Music doesn't ask anything of me. It doesn't expect replies or small talk or fake smiles. It just is And for a little while, walking across campus with those sounds in my ears, I almost believed I belonged somewhere.
Then came the seminar. I sat in the back, as always. Not because I dislike learning, but because being seen feels like a risk. What if someone notices the emptiness behind my eyes? What if they ask how I am and I accidentally tell the truth? So I stayed quiet, nodded when appropriate, took notes I'll never review, and let the words wash over me like rain on a window present, but never touching the core.
Afterward, I found the boys. "The boys" a loose constellation of faces I've shared classrooms and corridors with for years. We talked about nothing: a meme, a professor's weird habit, someone's new haircut. Random stuff. Safe stuff. Surface-level chatter that fills the air but never the silence inside. I laughed when they laughed. Nodded when they ranted. Played my part. But inside, I was screaming:
Does anyone here actually see me?
I ate half my lunch. Not because I wasn't hungry, but because eating alone feels like admitting defeat. Like the world has confirmed what I already suspect: that I'm not worth sharing a meal with. So I left the rest. Let it sit there, uneaten, like all the words I never say.
Then I wandered. Just walked. Through empty hallways, past bulletin boards plastered with events no one invited me to, past couples laughing like the future was something they could hold in their hands. I didn't have a destination. I just needed to move, to prove I was still capable of action, even if it led nowhere.
Boredom and loneliness are strange companions. One makes you restless; the other makes you numb. Together, they convinced me to attend another seminar not because I cared about the topic, but because being alone in a crowd feels less lonely than being alone in your own head. Someone talked "yapped," as I thought of it loud, confident, filling the room with their presence. I envied that. Not their words, but their certainty that someone wanted to hear them.
Eventually, I left. Got on the bus. Sat by the window. Watched the city blur past like scenes from someone else's life. And that's when it hit me: This was the best day ever.
Not because anything extraordinary happened. Not because I felt joy or connection or purpose. But because I survived it without breaking. Because I moved through the motions without collapsing under the weight of my own absence. Because, for once, being alone didn't feel like punishment it felt like peace. A hollow peace, yes, but mine.
And yet… beneath that fragile calm, there's a deep, aching longing. I miss people. Not just any people my people. The ones who used to text me at 2 a.m., who remembered how I take my coffee, who laughed at my dumb jokes without pretending. I miss voices that asked, "You okay?" and waited for the real answer. I miss feeling like I mattered to someone, even just a little.
But today, no one reached out. No messages. No calls. No "Hey, you disappeared everything alright?" Just silence. And so I did what I always do: I kept going. I came home. I sat at my desk. I opened my laptop. And I did my work. Not because I care about the assignment, but because doing something anything proves I'm still here.
There's a cruel irony in calling this "the best day ever." It's not triumphant. It's not joyful. It's quiet resignation dressed up as contentment. It's the realization that solitude has become my safest space, even though it's also my prison. I don't want to be alone. But I've learned to tolerate it better than the pain of reaching out and being met with indifference.
Still, I hold on to a sliver of hope faint, flickering, but persistent. The kind that whispers, Maybe tomorrow someone will notice. Maybe tomorrow I'll say what I really feel. Maybe tomorrow I won't have to pretend "All is well" when it isn't.
Until then, I'll keep showing up. To seminars, to conversations, to half-eaten lunches and empty bus rides. Not because I believe it will get better, but because somewhere inside, beneath the numbness, there's a version of me that still wants to believe it could.
And if you're reading this and you've ever felt this way like you're shouting into a void, like your presence goes unnoticed, like your loneliness is louder than your voice know this: your feelings are valid. Your longing for connection is human. And even if no one reached out to you today, that doesn't mean you're unworthy of love, attention, or care.
You are not invisible. You are not forgotten. And you are not alone even on the days it feels that way.
Content Warning: This piece explores themes of loneliness, social disconnection, emotional longing, and the internal conflict between wanting connection and retreating into solitude. If you are struggling with persistent feelings of isolation or emotional pain, please consider reaching out to a trusted friend, counselor, or mental health professional. You deserve to be heard