I’m not cold. Never distant because I don’t care. I’m distant because I’m lost. Lost in a world that doesn’t see me as I am. And everything I love—truly love—I love alone.

Because somewhere along the way, I started wanting things I'd trained myself not to want. Affection. Connection. Someone to sit across from me and just... stay.

You'd be talking—about something that mattered to you, something personal—and the person across from you would nod, make the right sounds, maybe even ask a question. But you could feel it: they weren't really there. They were waiting. Waiting for their turn to speak. Waiting to tell you their own story, give their own opinion, steer the conversation somewhere they wanted it to go. And what you shared will be forgotten.

On solitude, silence, and the distance between us

How many real conversations did you have? Not transactions—"send me the file," "what time is the call," "I'll grab lunch." But real ones. Where someone actually heard you. Where you didn't feel like you were talking to a wall that happened to nod.