Loneliness has returned. Although, to be honest, I don’t think it ever really left. It disguises itself, but it’s always there. It’s strange—or at least that’s what we’ve been made to believe: that we should feel at ease among our own, that physical closeness should be enough to erase inner distance. Yet, many times, I feel more comfortable among strangers. More accepted than among those who share my last name or fragments of childhood memories.

It seems the real strangers aren’t the unknown faces but those of blood, the ones with whom I could never truly strike the same chord. Those who, though branches of the same tree, grew in such opposite directions that we can barely recognize one another.

Maybe, after all, the stranger is me. Perhaps I haven’t known how to give the best of myself to build bridges. Perhaps I’ve spent too long watching the river flow without ever daring to cross it. What a crazy thing. But then again, we’ve also been made to believe that everything must fit neatly, that family must feel like an eternal embrace, when sometimes it’s barely a polite handshake.

Today, I feel like a musician in a band that plays in tune, except for me. Like a mole on pale skin, placed exactly where no one wants it. We play together, but I can’t find my note.

And so, without knowing exactly what I was looking for, I sat in front of a blank page. I opened the door to the words, letting them decide where they wanted to go. And with each word that poured out, loneliness became clearer. I realized, not with sadness, that I’m not truly accompanied. Maybe I never have been. It’s not an unbearable weight. It’s simply a fact that defies the social voice insisting we should feel complete just by being surrounded.

Now, as the words continue to flow, I have no idea where this will end. Maybe it’s a release, or, like so many other times, maybe it’s nothing. And that’s fine too. Not everything needs to have a grand ending. Sometimes writing is simply existing.

I keep sipping my coffee as the early morning stays dark and wet, drenched by the storm the forecast had warned about. I’ve always thought that if they’re going to announce a storm, I’d rather it be by a beautiful face. A voice that hugs the mind and leaves room for a sigh.

I’ve always been in love with them—the ones who radiate tenderness effortlessly, who know how to listen, who stay silent at the right moments, who embrace without fear. I miss a hug. Not just any hug. Hers. The one who won’t return. The one who seemed to understand my silences better than my words.

Anyway, here I am. With this loneliness that never really leaves, that just changes clothes to surprise me at the most unexpected times. And maybe, just maybe, it’s thanks to her that I reflect, that I understand nothing changes unless I am the one who moves the first link.

It’s strange. I’m surrounded by people, yet I always find myself searching for my own among strangers. Among those souls who owe me nothing, but where sometimes I find a flicker of home. As if home isn’t a place, nor a family, but rather the invisible vibration between two solitudes that recognize each other.

Sometimes, among so many faces, I find a gaze that doesn’t demand, that doesn’t judge. And for a brief moment, loneliness steps back, like an old friend who respects my space.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Others walk around smiling, carrying desserts inside them. Others who laugh at gatherings and cry alone in their rooms. So many worlds locked inside, so many untold stories.

And so I go on, learning that we don’t always have to fit in. It’s okay to be the dissonant note in the melody. That deep down, loneliness is not the enemy if you learn to look it in the eye.

I write these words as someone planting seeds in unknown soil. I don’t know if they’ll grow, if someone will find them, if they’ll bring comfort. But I write anyway. Because deep down, writing is also a form of love.

I’m still here. Not lost. Simply being. And for today, that is enough.