A Letter to Someone Sitting Alone in a Rented Room

To me, sitting alone in a rented room,

I'm writing to you with the fan on setting two, because three is too loud and one isn't enough. Eight in the evening. Out in the corridor someone's sandals slap past, then the door of the room next to yours closes, softly, though you hear every bit of it. On the desk is the rice box from the stall at the end of the alley, half eaten, chopsticks laid across the top. Your phone is face down. You turned it over five minutes ago, after scrolling through every group chat from work and seeing everyone somewhere with someone.

You've been working for a little over two months. In the dorm you shared a room with three others, and you complained about all of it: the snoring, the lights on late, somebody eating your yoghurt. You thought you were craving quiet. Now you have quiet. It is thicker than you expected, and it doesn't leave when you turn the fan up.

I'm not writing to tell you not to feel this. You've already said "you have your own room, a job, a salary, what's there to be sad about" to yourself tonight, twice. It's true. It also hasn't made the hollow place in your chest any smaller.

This afternoon the woman at the next desk asked:

"What are you doing this weekend?"

"Staying in."

"Staying in is nice. Get some rest."

You smiled, you nodded, and right then something small in you sank. She meant nothing by it. She was right. It's only that her "staying in" and your "staying in" aren't the same thing.

I want to say one thing, because I think you're mixing up two things. Being alone and being lonely are not the same. Some evenings you're alone and it's easy: soft music, laundry, reading in bed until your eyes close. Other evenings you can sit in a crowded noodle shop and feel miles away. Tonight is the second kind, even though no one is here to witness it. Loneliness isn't a flaw in you, and it isn't proof you did something wrong. It comes the way dusk comes. It may come for one evening, then a few more.

I also know you're waiting for someone to tell you to go out and meet more people, or dreading that someone will. I won't. Making friends is not homework, and if you do it because you were told to, it becomes one more tiredness. I only want you to stop running from it. Tonight, in this room, give it a seat.

Some people feel a little lighter afterwards. Some feel the sadness more clearly, because for the first time they hear it. Both are ordinary, and I don't need you to feel anything in particular.

I have no grand promises for you. I won't promise the loneliness will leave, because I don't know when it will. I'll only promise a few small things: tomorrow night I'll still be here, still making a cup of hot tea, and I won't make you be more cheerful than you were today. As for that half-eaten box, put it in the fridge. You can finish it tomorrow.

Me, twenty-five, second-floor rented room, fan on setting two.

When to seek professional support

This article is a letter written for one evening. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising that reading it will end loneliness.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• The loneliness has lasted for weeks, nearly every evening, and keeps getting heavier
• You don't want to see or message anyone, even people you are normally close to
• Eating or sleeping has clearly been thrown off: skipping meals again and again, or lying awake until morning
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Talking to a professional about loneliness is an ordinary thing to do, and you don't have to wait until things are at their worst to be allowed.

This article was created with AI assistance.