She didn’t knock.
She never does.
She slipped in through the cracks,
between an unanswered message
and the sound of your own breath in an empty room.
I thought I was alone.
Then she sat beside me—
not quite touch, not quite ghost—
and I realized I’d invited her
the moment I stopped trying to be found.
She looked nothing like loneliness.
She looked like quiet mornings and unfinished thoughts.
She smelled of old pages and cold air.
And when I met her eyes,
I saw my own reflection—just softer, quieter, blurred.
I called her company,
but she didn’t speak.
She just waited,
until I filled the silence with everything
I never said out loud.
We danced once, I think.
Or maybe I just swayed while she stood still.
Her hand never touched mine,
but I swear I felt it
where all my noise used to live.
She wasn’t cruel.
She never asked for anything—
just that I stay.
And for a while,
I did.
Because her silence was gentle.
And I mistook that for safety.
But Solitude is a lover that never sleeps.
She holds you so lightly,
you don’t notice you’re fading
until you vanish
without ever making a sound.
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