Imagine a typical morning at university, the office, or at home, one of those Fridays that promises a great weekend. My colleagues, family, or friends are sitting around a table, laughing at a silly joke, something that made them laugh, or even something else, sharing memes in the family or group chat and making plans to go out and take their minds off things, and even have a drink. And I'm there, sitting in my chair, smiling at the jokes, nodding when someone asks me something—if I did well at college or if I'm feeling okay—just nodding yes or no, but inside I feel a knot that no one notices. I talk about how “well” I'm doing in class or about things I do sometimes that sound exciting, but I don't say anything about the sleepless nights wondering if all this is worth it, if I'm doing it right, or about that doubt that eats away at me about whether they really know me beyond the “productive and active” version I show them.
It's like being at a party where everyone is dancing to the same beat, but you feel like the song you like best isn't playing on the speakers.
It's like being at a party where everyone is dancing to the same beat, but you feel like the song you like best isn't playing on the speakers.
On the way home from college on a crowded bus, surrounded by strangers looking at their phones, listening to loud music, talking nonstop to each other—where a child cries and his mother doesn't calm him down, where the person standing complains about whether more people get on or not—the feeling persists: company everywhere, but a void that makes me feel invisible, unstable. I have been through moments at family dinners or parties, where conversations revolve around the superficial—where so-and-so got married, where someone else bought a car, where someone fulfilled one of their dreams, and so on—and I long to ask about my brother's dreams or the things my little sister wants to do when she grows up, to confess to my mom how lost I sometimes feel, or to tell my parents how much I love them, but the moment passes and we remain on the surface.
This loneliness disguised as companionship is like a shadow lurking in everyday life, reminding us that relationships are not built only with spoken words, but with the unspoken ones that dare to come out. It has taught me that, to break it, you have to be the first to open the door: an honest question, a small confession, and suddenly, the crowd becomes a circle of real support. In the end, it transforms the ordinary into something profound, inviting us to choose vulnerability over comfort, because in that choice we find not only companionship, but a home in others. 🌌
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