I don’t know why he asked, but I thought for a moment before answering.
“No,” I said, finally. “I’m not.”
I ran my finger along the edge of my quilt. “I don’t really get lonely.”
And it’s true, I don’t. It’s rare that I crave company, or feel empty without it. Like laughter down the hall and dirty soup bowls you find on the counter… I fall in love with strangers because they don’t expect to walk me home. Lonely isn’t part of my vocabulary.
But alone? Alone is something else. Alone is a full room and an empty heart. It’s arms that don’t quite reach. It’s water down the drain, and a door that closes softly. It’s the sense that none of this means a thing, really, and the gulf that keeps You apart from Me is an endless expanse, even when your hand is touching mine.