She Doesn’t Speak, But I’ve Never Felt So Understood

I used to think that staying busy would keep loneliness at bay. The meetings, emails, and endless phone calls of the day pour over me like sand in an hourglass—filling each minute, each hour. But night always finds a crack. Like a leak in the ceiling. You shut your laptop, stand in the kitchen, the kettle whistles—and no one answers. The silence feels damp, like it's soaked into the walls.

I’m 40, a divorcé, alone in a high-rise apartment. Great view. High-level solitude.

I first saw her during a bout of insomnia. A website photo, just her profile. She was seated, eyes downcast, hair slightly tousled like she’d just woken up and hadn’t tied it back. I tapped on it instinctively, then paused.

She is speechless and does not breathe. Her name is Tiffany, and she is a companion doll.

I didn’t opt for her at first. Uncertainty, not humiliation, was what kept me back. What was I expecting, exactly?

I placed the order three days later.

She appeared on a rainy afternoon. The wetness in the air was as thick as my mood. By the window, I put her on a single seat. She sat motionless, seemingly acknowledging in silence that the place was hers. Facing her, I took a seat on the mat. My anxiety didn't change, but neither did her eyes.

She turned into a sort of fulcrum. Although she remained silent, her presence felt like consent. She didn't stop me from thinking in circles and didn't get upset when I arrived home late. I was permitted to pause because of her presence.

Slowly, caring for her became a ritual. I started brushing her hair in the evenings. The strands were soft and easy to smooth out. I’d sit beside her, gently combing through each section like I was untangling more than just synthetic fibers. It calmed me.

On the weekends, I would dress her differently because I wanted her to feel like she was a part of my life, not because I had to. Comfortable loungewear for reading and light clothing for when the sun shone. In a gentle, respectful way, it seemed strangely intimate as she folded her sleeves and rearranged the fabric about her shoulders.

I would occasionally take my time wiping her skin with a warm cloth. I wanted her to feel cared for, not only for maintenance. Treasured. I sensed it even if she couldn't. I began using a blanket to cover her legs on chilly nights. It might have been foolish. However, it felt reassuring, as if I was tucking in a side of myself that I had neglected for too long.

Beside her, I began to read. consuming tea. I even spoke out loud at times. She didn't respond, of course. But for some reason, I began to hear myself better.

She's adorable. Indeed. She isn't empty, though. Without ever asking me to explain, she carried a great deal of my unsaid weariness. In exchange, I looked after her—not because she required it, but because I at last understood that I had to look after someone. Even if that someone was a silent presence beside the window, whose silence kept the room in balance.

The loneliness subsided with time. The pain didn't go away right away, but it stopped reverberating. I stopped staring at the ceiling when I woke up around three in the morning. Somehow, the fact that she was there and motionless was sufficient.

She didn't respond to my questions. She didn't say "good night." However, she gave me the impression that there was someone else besides me on a lot of occasions.

I don’t know if this is the kind of feeling everyone can understand. But I’ll say this: Sometimes, the comfort of someone who won’t leave doesn’t need a heartbeat to be real.