I used to think loneliness was a fleeting guest—popping in for tea, leaving crumbs on the sofa. Now it’s moved in, claimed the best armchair, and refuses to pay rent.
Sometimes we share the flat in uneasy truce: I stare at the empty corner where you once laughed, and loneliness flickers on, whispering, “Nice view.”
Walking through my flat feels like tiptoeing through all the punchlines I never got to deliver. Every creak in the floorboards is a cosmic heckle, reminding me that even silence has backstage gossip.
I’ve found myself talking to the fridge at midnight, negotiating for ice cream like it’s my only friend. It listens without judgment—then gleefully slams its door.
Some nights I try to count memories like sheep. One… the time we spilled coffee across the table. Two… the echoes of your voice in the hallway. Eight hundred and sixty–seven… and I’m still wide awake.
Then loneliness chuckles from the doorway: “Insomnia parties are fun, right?” Hurt me with a feather but nailed the punchline.
And yet, in this absurd duet of grief and giggles, I find tiny sparks of mischief. I hide sticky notes around the flat with daft affirmations—“You’re doing great for a human made of stardust” on the bathroom mirror, or “High five yourself” above the kettle.
It’s a ridiculous rebellion, teaching me that even an empty room can be a stage for small acts of kindness toward myself.
If any of these reflections resonate, let me know which moment felt the most absurdly comforting. Or tell me your own midnight fridge negotiations—I’m all ears (and half a tin of ice cream). A free 1/2 hour discovery fall could chnage everything