I’m sitting in my old gray chair and it’s just me and this quiet mood. My phone is close but I’m not reaching for it. I keep thinking about how being alone used to feel like a punishment, like I’d done something wrong and needed to fix it fast. I’d scroll until my eyes hurt, hoping to find a little proof that I belonged somewhere, anywhere.
Today, the loneliness isn’t sharp. It’s more like a gentle ache, a soft awareness in my chest. I notice the way my body settles into itself, the way my legs fold up, the way my shoulders drop. I remember being nineteen and thinking I had to perform my queerness, always on, always visible, or I might disappear. Now, I just let myself be quiet and Black and queer, not needing to explain it to the empty room or to myself.
It’s funny how I used to hate the sound of my own thoughts. Now, sometimes they’re the only thing that feels honest. There’s no audience here, just me smirking at a memory of a bad date or letting a sad playlist play all the way through without skipping the slow songs. I’m not trying to fix anything. I’m just letting it be.
There’s a small comfort in realizing I don’t have to make this moment mean something big. I can just notice the loneliness, not fight it, not dress it up. It’s part of me, and maybe it always will be, but it doesn’t scare me like it used to. I can sit here, soft and open, and know that I’m still real, still queer, still here. That feels enough for tonight.