A Letter From the Friendless

I don’t know how to say this without feeling the weight of it pressing against my chest. Maybe because it's the hardest thing to admit—not just to others, but to myself. I’ve spent years whispering these words to the empty spaces in my heart, thinking if I said it enough times, the sting of it might dull. But it hasn’t. It never does.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be one of those people who seem to always be surrounded by laughter, by company, by belonging. You know the kind, the ones who slide effortlessly into every conversation, who walk into a room and are instantly swept into a circle of familiarity, of warmth. I’ve watched them, studied them from the shadows, wishing I could be one of them, even if just for a moment. But the truth is, no matter how many times I try to join in, the silence is always there, louder than anything else.

It’s the kind of silence that grows inside of you, like a slow-growing echo that no one else hears. The kind that becomes a part of you until it feels like it’s always been there. You begin to wonder if it’s something that’s been put there deliberately, as if you were meant to be alone all along, as if friendship was something that was never meant for you.

People try to console you, of course. They tell you, “You just need to open up more.” Or, “You’ll find your people, just keep trying.” But how can you explain to them that opening up feels like throwing yourself into an ocean without knowing how to swim? How do you explain that the fear of being misunderstood, of not being seen for who you truly are, is far scarier than the comfort of silence? How do you tell them that trying again feels like expecting a flower to bloom in the middle of winter?

I’ve had friendships, I think, at least that’s what they were supposed to be. I’ve shared laughs, I’ve shared secrets, I’ve held the hands of people who told me they’d always be there. But the thing about these friendships was that they were always fleeting, like stars that burned brightly for a moment before fading away into the night. I was left standing in the dark again, waiting for the next spark, the next promise, the next person to fill the empty space beside me. But no one stayed long enough to make a home.

I’ve realized now that some people are like that. They come into your life like a warm breeze, full of energy, full of light, and then just as quickly, they’re gone. And you’re left wondering if you ever really mattered to them at all. You question yourself. Was I too much? Was I too quiet? Did I not give enough of myself, or did I give too much?

In the quiet moments, when I’m alone with my thoughts, I ask myself these questions again and again, hoping that the answers will somehow make the ache go away. But they don’t. Because the truth is, I don’t know how to fit into the world the way other people do. I don’t know how to make myself part of a group that seems to move so effortlessly, without effort, without thought. And the more I try, the more I feel like I’m forcing myself into a shape that was never meant for me.

And then, it hits me again—the silence. The kind of silence that fills every corner of the room. The kind of silence that doesn’t just surround you; it sinks into your bones. It’s a quiet that doesn’t ask for your attention. It doesn’t demand your tears. It just is.

I’ve tried filling the void with things—books, music, the glow of my phone screen late at night, the hum of a movie that drowns out the thoughts in my head. But nothing works. Nothing ever truly fills it. And I wonder if that’s what it’s always going to be like. This empty space inside me that no one seems to notice. That no one seems to understand.

Sometimes, I think about what it would be like to have someone who truly gets me. To have someone who doesn't just know the version of me that smiles and nods and pretends everything’s fine. Someone who sees beyond the armor I’ve built up to protect myself from the world. Someone who sees the little girl who was once full of hope but has since become wary, someone who understands the weight of the silence I carry.

But then I remember—maybe it’s not just me. Maybe we all feel this way sometimes. Maybe we all have moments when we feel like we're standing on the outside, looking in, wishing that someone would see us, would hear us. Maybe we all long for that one person who will truly understand us. But what if that person doesn’t come? What if they never come?

That’s the truth about being friendless—that hollow space, that quiet ache, that constant wondering if anyone will ever truly want to be with you, just as you are. Not for what you can give, but for who you are at your core. Because in a world where everyone is constantly seeking validation from others, it’s hard to believe that anyone would want to stand by someone who can’t offer anything but their raw, unfiltered self.

So we keep waiting. We keep hoping. We keep pretending that we’re okay. We keep filling our days with tasks, with distractions, with everything that doesn’t matter, just to avoid the crushing truth that we’re alone, again. But the silence always returns, just as it always has. And I wonder, sometimes, if it’s meant to stay. If we’re meant to be the ones who walk this path alone, with nothing but our thoughts to keep us company.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s what life is. Maybe some of us are meant to find solace in the quiet, to learn to love ourselves so deeply that we no longer need anyone else to fill the space. Maybe that’s where the true strength lies—in the ability to sit with your own thoughts and still feel whole. To look into the mirror and not see a reflection of loneliness, but a reflection of someone who has learned to survive, to thrive, even in the absence of everything that once seemed so important.

And maybe, just maybe, we can find peace in the spaces between the words, in the spaces between the people, in the quiet corners of our lives where no one else dares to go. Because that’s where the real us resides. Not in the noise, not in the crowd, but in the silence.

So, if you’re reading this and you feel like I’m speaking to you, just know that you’re not alone in this. You’re not the only one who feels like a ghost in a room full of people. You’re not the only one who has watched friendships fade into the distance, who has sat alone in the dark, wondering if anyone will ever truly see you. You’re not the only one who has questioned their place in this world.

But if nothing else, let me tell you this: You matter. You may not have the friends you wish for, you may not have the company you crave, but you matter. Your presence, your thoughts, your heart—they matter. You are not invisible. You are not alone. And one day, when the time is right, you’ll find someone who will see you. Not just the surface, but everything you are beneath it. And until then, you have yourself. And that is enough.

Neta.