Loneliness isn’t sharp today. It’s a low hum, a reminder that I am still here, that my pulse belongs to me before it belongs to anyone else. I listen to it. I learn its rhythm again.
There’s comfort in reclaiming my own space, my thoughts no longer brushing against someone else’s edges. I sit with my shadows, name them, let them stretch. I light my own heart like a lamp in a dim hallway, guiding myself back to the parts of me I had paused for love.
Being alone again is not a punishment.
It is a return.
A small doorway back to myself—quiet, steady, patient.
There’s comfort in reclaiming my own space, my thoughts no longer brushing against someone else’s edges. I sit with my shadows, name them, let them stretch. I light my own heart like a lamp in a dim hallway, guiding myself back to the parts of me I had paused for love.
Being alone again is not a punishment.
It is a return.
A small doorway back to myself—quiet, steady, patient.




