To the one who feels alone even when you’re not,

Loneliness after loss doesn’t always look like empty rooms.
Sometimes it looks like full ones.

Conversations. Work. Family chats. Social plans.
People around you. Noise. Movement.

And yet… the person you want to talk to isn’t here.
The one who knew your shorthand.
The one you didn’t have to explain yourself to.
The one your mind still reaches for first.

That absence creates a loneliness nothing else really touches.

This is the loneliness no one sees.
The kind that doesn’t come from a lack of people,
but from the absence of one specific person.

It can feel like everyone else is speaking a language you no longer live in.
Like the things that matter most don’t have a natural home in everyday conversation.
So you edit yourself.
You offer the lighter version.
You save the real words for the car, the shower, the pillow.

And sometimes that quietness aches more than being by yourself.

If you’ve been feeling unseen, unheard, or strangely separate from the world lately, there is nothing wrong with you.
Grief rearranges your inner landscape.
It changes who you want to talk to.
It deepens you in places most of the world doesn’t know how to enter.

One true thing:
The deepest loneliness in grief often comes from missing the one person you want to tell everything to.

Quote:
“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”
- C.S. Lewis

Song:
“Moon Song” - Phoebe Bridgers
(Soft, exposed, and quietly devastating in the way loneliness often is.)

A gentle ritual, if it feels right:
Choose one small moment this week to speak to them.
Light a candle. Step outside. Sit on your bed.
Say their name.
Tell them one ordinary thing about your day.

Not to make it easier, just to let the connection breathe.

Journal prompt (only if it feels okay):
What do I most wish I could tell them right now?

One thing to remember this week:
Missing the person you want to talk to most will always feel lonely. That isn’t a failure of connection - it’s a measure of love.

A note from me:
This is the loneliness that still surprises me.

Not the absence of people; but the absence of her.

There are moments something happens and my whole body leans toward telling Kahlia, before my mind catches up. That instinct is still there. That reaching. And when I realise the conversation can’t happen, that’s when the loneliness really lands.

If you’re carrying that kind of loneliness, I want you to know how deeply understandable it is. There can be rooms full of people we care about, and still, the one we want most isn’t there. That doesn’t cancel the others. It just tells the truth about love.

If this touched something tender, you’re welcome to reply.
Messy. Short. Honest.
Sometimes being able to say their name is enough.

With you,
Kirsten