Solitude is not the absence of people.
It is the echo left behind after wanting.

She wakes in the dark
already knowing no one will reach for her,
not because she is unlovable,
but because love has never been there.

It settles in the hollow of her ribs,
heavy and quiet,
a truth she does not speak aloud
because she is tired of explaining
why independence still aches.

Solitude watches her learn how to carry herself.
How to be both the arms and the ache.
How to soothe the places that only soften
when another heartbeat is near.

It teaches her self-sufficiency, yes,
but it also teaches grief.
For tenderness with nowhere to land.
For warmth that stays imaginary.
For the version of her that would rest easier
if someone else shared the weight of the night.

She turns off the light anyway.
Listens to her own breathing.
Lets the quiet stay.

Because wanting to be held
does not make her weak.
It makes her human.

And solitude, no matter how familiar,
is still a room she does not want to live in forever.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.