For a long time, a man believed he was not alone.
He had people close to him —
those with whom he shared a home,
time,
memories.
They knew his face, his voice, his habits.
He knew their answers
before they spoke.
But one day, he noticed something strange.
When he began to speak about what mattered,
the room grew quieter —
but not more attentive.
They nodded.
They answered correctly.
Sometimes — with care.
But the words did not reach them.
He understood then
that it was not about distance
and not about the absence of people.
Everyone was there.
Too close
for it to be called emptiness.
Loneliness did not arrive
when someone left.
It arrived
when those closest to him
stopped recognizing
his inner voice.
He understood:
Loss is when a person is gone.
Loneliness
is when a person is present,
but no longer yours.
From that day on,
he stopped fearing being alone.
He began to fear
remaining among those
who had become strangers.
And that was more honest.