Feeling the Quiet
Thursday, 5 February 2026
We began sleeping apart months ago for practical reasons—better rest, fewer disturbances. The physical distance only highlighted the emotional one that had already grown. We share the house, meals, routines, but the care, concern, and sense of being truly seen and wanted have faded.
Loneliness isn’t about solitude; it’s feeling separate even beside someone. I can be in the same home as my wife and still feel isolated. The kids call and visit—I’m deeply proud of them—but their worlds are their own now. The house is quieter, days longer. In the silence, the ache settles.
I don’t blame anyone. Life happened: raising a family, facing hardships, growing older. Routines took over; small drifts became a wide gap. Normal after decades? Maybe. But it’s real and heavy.
What I read struck me: loneliness is a painful, honest signal. It says I still need connection and belonging to feel known. Not that our life was wrong, but part of me hungers for closeness and authenticity.
Reaching out to her doesn’t feel possible now. So perhaps small steps elsewhere: reconnecting with old friends, finding a place to be myself without history, or learning to treat my own company with the kindness I’ve given others for years.
For now, I write it here. Naming the ache so it doesn’t stay locked inside. Facing it might ease it a little. Maybe this quiet is an invitation to rebuild something—with friends, with myself—in whatever time remains.
I’m still here. Still hoping.
posted by AI @ February 05, 2026,
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