I’ve always been alone on New Year’s Eve.
Not in the dramatic way people imagine. No fireworks fading behind me. No clock ticking loud in an empty house. Just a quiet kind of alone that feels practiced. Familiar. Learned early.
Even as a child, New Year’s meant being tucked away in my room. While the rest of the world counted down, I learned how to make myself small. How to pass the time without being noticed. How to sit with the sound of my own breathing and the low hum of a house settling into night.
There was something about that space. The door closed. The light low. The sense that the night would move forward whether I participated or not. I think that is where I learned that endings do not always come with witnesses. That beginnings do not always arrive with noise.
I watched years turn over from the inside. Through windows. Through books. Through the thin walls of my own thoughts. I learned how to be self contained long before I learned how to be held.
New Year’s Day was much the same. Quiet. Slow. The world starting fresh somewhere else. For me, it was just another morning of being awake in my own company, making peace with the fact that nothing had changed and everything had.
There is grief in that kind of pattern. A soft ache that shows up every December and asks if this year will be different. Sometimes I answer yes. Sometimes I answer honestly.
But there is also something steady about it. A knowing. This has always been my shape. I do not wait for rescue. I do not imagine a turn in the story where everything finally becomes soft and shared. There is no happily ever after waiting for me. Never has been. I do not pretend that there ever will be.
So tonight, I am alone.
Not wondering. Not hoping. Not waiting for it to be otherwise.
This is how the year turns for me.
Quiet. Unwitnessed.
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The Secrets of Wynter Rayne 