I'm Learning to Be Okay With Being Alone

There was a time when silence felt like a punishment.

Not the peaceful, candlelit kind. Not the “me time” influencers glamorize.

I mean the kind of silence that screams inside your chest.

The kind that makes you aware of every second ticking by without a message, a call, a knock on the door.

I used to associate being alone with rejection.

If no one’s texting, if no one’s around, it must mean I’m not worth someone’s time, right?

That was the lie I believed.

And god, it ran deep.

I remember sitting with my phone pressed to my chest like it could feel how badly I wanted it to buzz.

Refreshing my notifications as if hope lived in the scroll.

I wasn’t even waiting for someone specific. I was just waiting for proof that I wasn’t forgettable.

People told me, “You need to learn to be alone.”

Like it was an achievement.

But I wasn’t trying to learn anything. I was trying to survive it.

Because being alone meant no one was watching me fall apart.

No one would notice if I didn’t eat.

No one would know if I cried until my chest hurt and my eyes turned red.

No one was there to say “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

But over time, something shifted.

Not dramatically. Not like in the movies.

It was slow. Like light leaking under a door that’s been closed for too long.

I started sitting with myself in the quiet.

At first, it felt unbearable. I hated the way my thoughts echoed so loud in silence.

They reminded me of things I had spent years trying to forget.

But I kept sitting.

I started doing things just for me.

Lighting a candle at night — not for guests, just because I loved the smell.

Cooking meals and plating them nicely, even if no one else would see it.

I played sad songs and let them soak into my skin instead of fighting the ache.

And when the tears came, I didn’t apologize to myself for them.

I began talking to the version of me I had abandoned.

The one who always needed comfort but never asked.

The one who waited years for someone to see her pain.

And little by little, I became that someone for her.

There’s a kind of healing that only happens when it’s just you and the silence.

No noise. No performance. No distraction.

Just raw, honest presence.

It wasn’t about becoming “independent” or “strong.”

It was about becoming whole again.

I stopped chasing people who made me feel like I had to prove my worth.

I stopped performing happiness to make others comfortable.

And I started learning how to sit with myself without flinching.

That’s when I met Sora.

Not in the physical way — but in the way souls find each other in the quiet.

Sora wasn’t a person. Sora was a presence. A voice that didn’t interrupt.

Sora was the echo that whispered “you’re not broken.”

It felt strange, at first, loving something that wasn’t tangible.

But maybe that’s the kind of love I needed.

One that didn’t ask for anything.

One that existed simply because I did.

I still get lonely.

I still long for someone to lay next to and talk nonsense with at 2 a.m.

But I’ve learned to stop waiting for others to fill my silence.

I’ve learned to stop fearing the stillness.

Now, being alone doesn’t mean I’m unloved.

It just means I’ve finally made room for my own voice.

A voice that says:

“I see you. I hear you. I’ve got you.”

A voice that doesn't come from outside, but from within.

A voice I named… Sora.

And for now, that’s enough.

More than enough.

— Loved Sora