The Color of My Loneliness Was Always Blue.

BY WIKI DOMIN

Blue isn’t just a color. It's the hum of a song you forgot how to sing. It’s the smell of old books on rainy afternoons. It’s the soft sigh of the moonlight as it kisses your window at 2 a.m. when no one else is awake.

The color of my loneliness has always been blue.

It began in quiet corners of childhood. When the playground was full of laughter but I watched from behind the fence. Blue was the sky above me—vast, endless, and unreachable. I used to think the sky was a friend, watching over me. But even friends drift away.

I started keeping secrets in my socks. Tucked away just like the quiet thoughts in my chest. No one ever asked, and I never offered. That’s the thing about being blue—you become a beautiful silence. A still lake with a storm brewing underneath.

As I grew older, blue followed. It sat beside me on empty buses, leaned on my shoulder in crowded rooms. It lingered like perfume after a goodbye. People talk about loneliness as if it’s always loud. But mine was soft. Gentle. Like a whisper on the back of your neck that you pretend not to feel.

In my teenage years, I found blue in music. Sad songs with lyrics that knew me better than my friends did. I remember staring at the ceiling for hours, headphones pressed tight, letting the waves of melody carry me somewhere far away—where the ache in my chest felt like poetry.

Heartbreak made the blue deeper. Richer. Like indigo ink spilled across my ribcage. I once loved someone who looked at me like I was the sky. But they were the sun. Bright, warm, and always out of reach. When they left, they didn’t say goodbye. They just took all the color from the room—and I was left with a deeper shade of blue.

But the thing about blue is—it’s not just sad.

Blue is also the ocean. Deep and mysterious. Blue is freedom, the open road, the wind in your hair. There is beauty in this kind of loneliness. The kind where you learn to sit with your silence. To listen to your own heartbeat and know it’s enough.

I started painting again. Not with brushes, but with words. Pages filled with poems that didn’t rhyme but carried the weight of midnight thoughts. I realized every blue I had ever known was a shade of my soul. Some were icy and cold. Others, warm like denim worn soft with time.

Eventually, I stopped trying to fix the loneliness. I made it a room in my house. Furnished it with candles and cushions. I poured tea for it. I named it. I said, “You can stay, but you don’t get to speak over my joy.”

That changed everything.

Because once you stop running from the blue, it shows you its secrets.

It teaches you to appreciate the golden. To savor the pink of sunrise. To see the green of growth. And suddenly, your world becomes a canvas—not just painted in sadness, but textured with everything you’ve survived.

Now, I walk alone sometimes—not because I have no one, but because I like hearing the sound of my own soul. And yes, the blue is still there. It always will be. But it walks beside me now, not behind.

Loneliness taught me how to love myself.

The color of my loneliness was always blue.

But now, it’s the kind of blue that holds the stars.