My place is empty.
The lonely echoes through the walls.
But at least I no longer take the long way home.
I used to cycle the long way round,
past the park, down side streets,
watching the clock on my phone,
knowing you’d be done with work,
knowing you’d be there waiting,
ready to ask where I’d been,
with that tone that made my shoulders curl tight
like I was folding myself smaller to disappear.
I’d stand at the garage gate,
bike still between my legs,
counting breaths, counting moments,
finding reasons to check my phone
though no one called anymore.
I’d made sure of that,
cut the threads holding me
to anything outside these walls.
I used to brace for the sound of keys
that soft metallic warning shot.
Ready? Autopilot on. Perform.
“Welcome home.”
The careful smile, the measured voice,
the way I made myself smaller
so he wouldn’t have to notice
how much space I took up.
Don’t try to be alive.
You are only meant to exist.
Now it’s just me.
Me and the quiet.
Me and the whistle of the kettle,
the clink of a fork,
the creak of floorboards under feet I no longer tiptoe on.
I sit in the same kitchen chair
where I used to vanish in plain sight:
silent, pleasant,
shrinking with every meal we shared.
But now there’s no one watching.
Just me
and the wreckage of a girl
who used to beg the silence to save her.
Sometimes I move to my gaming chair,
headset on, back turned to the world,
lighting up other worlds.
This one still doesn’t feel like mine.
It’s a different kind of vanishing:
chosen,
where I can be loud, or legendary, or loved.
Until a voice from the other room
used to rip me back into reality.
Now I sit frozen,
wondering if I’m allowed to want more.
I still catch myself holding my breath,
like I’m waiting to be corrected
for existing the wrong way.
I don’t know if I belong in this city.
I don’t know if I belong anywhere.
My place is empty.
And yeah, lonely still echoes.
But it’s not the same.
It’s not the kind of loneliness
of sharing space with someone
who slowly erases you,
until you don’t know where you end and they begin.
I used to stare at my phone,
waiting for someone
to tell me who I really am.
Someone, anyone,
to call… home.
It’s going to have to be me.
And the road ahead is long.
Loneliness still cuts deep:
when the wind rattles the windows at night,
I realise I’m the only one who checks the locks,
the only one who keeps me safe.
Or when I scroll through my contacts.
My thumb hovers but there’s no one I feel brave enough to call.
Not for something as small as a flat tire,
not for something as big as this ache.
My place is empty.
The lonely echoes through the walls.
But at least I’m not tiptoeing anymore.
No shrinking.
No rehearsed greetings.
I play that song you found annoying on a loop,
I eat breakfast for dinner,
I leave dishes in the sink.
I take up space
all of it mine,
finally.
I cook a meal that turns out perfect
and have to eat it alone.
Too good to share, anyway.
I find something funny
and tell it to the spider in the bathroom.
She’s been a good listener lately.
I’ve started sleeping with my childhood teddy.
The bed feels big.
I wake up sprawled sideways
and smile.
Then the tears well up.
It’s been so long since I was held.
So I wrap my arms around myself
and whisper the sweet nothings
I used to wait for.
It’s not what I wanted.
But at least I don’t have to explain myself to anyone
not even the spider.
My place is empty.
The lonely echoes through the walls.
And sometimes,
I still take the long way home.