Who cares?

Not you!

I laugh a lot. Not because I’m always happy, but because it’s easier than explaining why I’m not.

I have friends—good ones, too. We hang out, crack jokes, send memes at odd hours, and talk about everything and nothing. If you asked them, they’d say I’m the life of the party, the one who always has something funny to say, the one who never seems to have a bad day.

And I let them believe it. Because it’s easier. Because nobody wants to hear the truth.

The truth is, I’ve never felt more alone.

There’s a kind of loneliness that eats at you, the kind that doesn’t come from being physically alone but from being surrounded by people who don’t actually see you. It’s laughing at jokes that don’t reach your heart, showing up to gatherings where your presence wouldn’t really be missed, and listening—always listening—while never being heard.

I know how it feels to be the friend who’s always available, always ready to comfort, always there when someone needs a shoulder to lean on. But when the roles reverse? When it’s me standing at the edge of a breakdown, desperate for someone to notice the cracks forming in my carefully put-together exterior?

Silence.

No calls. No texts. No concern.

Not because they’re bad friends. No, they’re just… people. People who assume that because you smile, you’re fine. That because you show up, you’re okay. That because you never say, I need help, you don’t actually need it.

And so, I play my part.

I fake the smiles. I perfect the art of deflecting, of making a joke right before the conversation gets too real. I master the skill of being there for everyone while convincing myself that I don’t need anyone to be there for me.

But at night, when the world is quiet and my thoughts are louder than ever, the weight of it all settles on my chest. That’s when the loneliness hits the hardest. The moment when I realize that I could disappear—just stop showing up, stop texting back, stop pretending—and no one would really ask why.

Oh, they’d notice, of course. They’d wonder where I went, maybe even send a casual You good? text. But if I don’t answer? They’d move on. Life would continue. Because in the end, I’m not necessary. I’m just… there. A presence, not a priority.

And that’s what hurts the most.

The realization that you could be surrounded by people, yet not truly belong to any of them. That the connections you thought were unbreakable were only ever surface-level. That your role in people’s lives is not as important as you once believed.

But then, there’s always that one person.

The one who sees you, really sees you. The one who notices the shifts in your voice, the pauses in your messages, the way your “I’m fine” doesn’t sound fine at all. The one person who doesn’t wait for you to ask for help because they just know.

And for a while, it makes the loneliness bearable.

Until they’re not there.

Maybe they’re busy and just dealing with their own battles. That’s when it gets worse. That’s when you realize that despite all the people around you, only one ever truly understood you. And if that one person is unreachable, then what?

Then the silence becomes deafening.

Then you start questioning everything—why you have so many people around yet only one ever gets you. Why you pour so much of yourself into friendships that only feel real in moments, but never in the ways that matter. Why your existence in their lives feels like an option, while theirs in yours feels like a necessity.

And suddenly, you feel stupid.

Stupid for believing you weren’t alone just because one person made you feel otherwise. Stupid for getting too comfortable, for letting yourself lean on someone when you swore you wouldn’t.

So, you sit with it. You sit with the weight of it all, the loneliness pressing deeper, the ache settling in places you thought you had hardened.

They’ll say, You should have said something.

But how do you explain that you did?

In the way your texts got shorter. In the way you stopped initiating plans. In the way your laughter sounded different, forced. In the way you looked away when they asked, How are you? because you knew they didn’t really want the truth.

You said it, in a thousand different ways.

They just weren’t listening.

So, you learn to carry it alone. To wipe your own tears, sit with your own pain, and tell yourself it’s fine. You become so good at pretending that even you start to believe it. You convince yourself that loneliness is just a part of life, that this is how it’s meant to be.

And the scariest part?

You get used to it.