Last Tuesday, I sat in a bustling coffee shop surrounded by exactly 47 people. I counted them. Twice. It’s funny how you notice these things when you’re desperately trying to feel less alone.
The barista knew my order by heart: “Oat milk latte, extra shot, light foam?” She even drew a little heart on top. I should have felt connected. Instead, I felt like I was watching my life through a slightly smudged window.
The Party Where I Disappeared
It was at Sarah’s birthday party when I first noticed it. There I was, right in the middle of her living room, surrounded by people I’d known for years. Music was playing. People were laughing. I was smiling too — I’m good at that part.
But something was off.
Have you ever tried to tune a radio and hit that spot where two stations overlap? That’s what my brain felt like. I could hear everything, but nothing made sense. People’s voices merged into white noise, and their faces became a watercolor painting left out in the rain.
“Are you okay?” Sarah asked, touching my arm. “You seem quiet tonight.”
I nodded and raised my glass. “Just tired from work.”
The perfect excuse. We’re all always tired from work.
The Numbers Game
Here’s what my average week looks like:
- 42 hours in the office with 23 coworkers
- 3 team meetings with 12 people each
- 2 happy hours with 8–10 friends
- 1 family dinner with 5 people
- 147 WhatsApp messages in various group chats
- 89 Instagram interactions
- 1 persistent feeling that I’m the only person on a planet of 8 billion who feels this way
It happened in the grocery store, of all places. I was standing in the cereal aisle, staring at 27 different types of granola (yes, I count things when I’m anxious), when an elderly woman dropped her shopping list.
I picked it up for her. Simple enough.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” she said, then paused. Really looked at me. “You remind me of myself at your age. Always surrounded, never seen.”
My carefully constructed mask cracked. Just a little.
“How did you…” I started.
She smiled, patted my hand, and said something that’s been echoing in my head ever since: “Loneliness isn’t about being alone. It’s about being unable to share your soul’s language.”
Here’s the thing about emotional invisibility — it’s not a static state. Some days, I’m fine. Great even. I laugh at office jokes, share memes in group chats, and feel like maybe I was just being dramatic about the whole thing.
Then there are days when I feel like a ghost who forgot they died, still going through the motions of living.
Last night, I did something different. Instead of scrolling through Instagram while pretending to be busy at my favorite café, I opened my Notes app and started writing this.
A guy at the next table noticed my furious typing and asked if I was writing a novel.
“No,” I said, then added without thinking, “I’m writing about feeling alone in crowded rooms.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Can I read it when you’re done?”
I looked up, ready to deflect with a laugh or a joke. But something in his eyes stopped me. They had that same slightly smudged window look I see in my mirror every morning.
Maybe that’s where this story really begins.
Or maybe the real story is just about to start. Because here’s what I’m slowly realizing: When you put your loneliness into words, it becomes a bridge instead of a wall.
I’m still counting people in rooms. Still feeling that disconnect. But now I’m also counting something else: the moments when my carefully constructed mask slips, and instead of disaster, I find recognition in someone else’s eyes.
This isn’t a story about finding all the answers. It’s not even a story about overcoming loneliness.
It’s a story about learning to speak my soul’s language out loud, even when my voice shakes.
And maybe, just maybe, someone out there is tuned to the same frequency.
To be continued…
Because aren’t we all works in progress?