let me tell you about being alone

not the kind you think of.
not missing someone in your bed.
not a quiet night in an empty room.

i mean the kind of alone
where there’s no father with a toolbox,
no brother with a truck—
(or who gives a fuck)
no friend who says,
of course, girl — what do you need?

the kind of alone
where there’s no neighbor to call,
no one in driving distance who even notices you’re missing.
where you fucking hate having to ask for help—
because:
it’s a favor,
a burden,
a negotiation.

where getting a flat tire isn’t a bad day —
it’s a risk assessment.
it’s standing on the side of the road, praying
the strangers you have to interact with are safe —
because you’re alone with a baby.

where holidays aren’t just lonely —
they are loud,
screaming at you through every window,
full of other people’s families.
and you’re just sitting there,
watching yourself not belong anywhere.
pretending whatever you glued together is enough.

the kind of alone
where every small breakdown
is a sermon about how optional you are.

i have lived my whole life like this.
but this is the first time i stopped pretending otherwise.

because honestly,
i've always been surrounded.
just not caught.
just not included.

they orbit when you shine.
they love your glow.
they swear they’d catch you if you ever fell.

but stay dark for longer than three minutes —
and you’re heavy.
too much.
too messy.
too much of a reminder of the shit they’re scared could happen to them too—
if they were truly alone.

because you made this bed for yourself, didn’t you?

so you learn to laugh it off.
you learn to need less.
you learn to say, it's okay, i got it.

because if you don't —
you watch the way people look at you.
like you’re already dead weight.
like they were never really planning to be there.

and the sickest part is:
if i disappeared,
if something happened,
it might take a day.
two.
longer.
before anyone even noticed my silence.
before anyone worried about my dog.
or my daughter.

this is not romance loneliness.
this is survival loneliness.
the kind you have to bleed through at night,
so your kid doesn’t sense the silence it leaves behind.

i don’t romanticize it.
i don’t call it strength.

but we are still here.
somehow.

not because it’s beautiful.
not because it’s noble.
but because no one ever should have had to do this alone.

and yet here we are.