“And when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and nobody waits for you at night, what do you call it — freedom or loneliness?” — Charles Bukowski
We like to romanticise solitude. Solitude wears linen, burns candles, reads hardcovers, and doesn’t cry in the cereal aisle of Tesco. But there’s a fine, barely-there line between solitude and loneliness — and some days, that line vanishes completely.
Loneliness isn’t always loud. It’s not necessarily sobbing into your pillow or texting your ex just to feel alive. Sometimes, it’s that quiet moment you turn around after a long day, reach for someone to hug — just someone — and realise there’s no one there. Worse, you realise there’s no one you can call who would actually understand what you’d say if you tried.
It’s the absence of even the option of being seen. Not the lack of attention, but the lack of a witness.
And then you ask yourself something you didn’t think you’d need to: Is this what they meant by being free?
Safety: The Myth We Keep Believing In
Let’s talk about safety — not in the “alarm system and pepper spray” sense, but in the emotional one. The safety of knowing someone has your back. The assurance that if you break down, you won’t have to mop yourself up alone.
You work hard to build emotional walls. Life teaches you that — bit by bit, disappointment by disappointment. And then someone comes along, and maybe they seem different. You let them in. You tell them things. You show them the blueprint of the fortress you’ve carefully constructed.
They hold your hand while you chip away at it. You start to believe in safety again. You start to believe in the idea that maybe, just maybe, this person could be home.
And then it starts.
Tiny, almost invisible bricks begin appearing between you. A flippant comment here. A broken promise there. A moment they dismiss you when you were being vulnerable. Things you’ve already asked them not to do — things you were clear about, honest about, brave about.
You brought the wall down. But they’re the one rebuilding it, slowly and stubbornly.
And then comes the ugliest question of all: If the people I trust end up being the reason I can’t trust… is anywhere safe?
The Wildest Kind of Safety
There’s something untouchable about those rare moments in life when you feel completely unguarded with someone — and you’re not afraid. When it’s not just emotional nudity, but emotional freedom. The kind of connection where you’re wild and raw and unfiltered, and somehow, still entirely safe.
No second-guessing. No censoring. No defence mechanisms humming in the background.
That kind of bond is its own religion. You tell yourself, This is what it means to be seen. This is what it means to be known. And in that moment, you would burn every last blueprint of every wall you’ve ever built, because this — this — is what you’ve been waiting for.
But then the shift comes.
They begin to retreat. They become cold. They start laying bricks — quietly, sometimes kindly — but laying them all the same. Until one day you realise: they’ve built a wall against you.
The same person who helped you tear yours down.
And now, there you are — bare and exposed in a space you thought was sacred, watching the person who promised safety walk away with the keys.
Can You Really Trust Again After That?
At some point, you start to consider the unthinkable: What if it’s just better to keep the walls up?
If opening up leads to hurt, if vulnerability is rewarded with silence or withdrawal, why bother?
You try to convince yourself that self-preservation is more important than hope. That walls might not be romantic, but they are reliable. Walls are honest, consistent, open — they are what they are. They don’t make promises they can’t keep. They don’t offer warmth and then go cold. There are no surprises that chip away at your heart, no sudden shifts that leave tears in your eyes at midnight.
You don’t have to second-guess a wall. You just know where you stand: alone, yes — but at least not confused.
And maybe you even get good at it. You become the kind of person who doesn’t flinch when things fall apart, because nothing ever gets close enough to hurt you anymore.
But sometimes — late at night, when the world has gone quiet — you still feel it.
That ache for softness. That need to exhale into someone’s arms. That longing to be held without armour.
And you wonder: how long can a person survive without being truly seen?
So, What Now?
Honestly? I don’t have a 10-step plan. I’m not selling a course. I haven’t found the answer tucked between the pages of a self-help book or the hashtags of an inspirational quote post.
But here’s what I know for sure: You’re allowed to miss what you lost and still protect what remains of you. You’re allowed to feel angry that you trusted, and still mourn the loss of the person you trusted.
You’re allowed to not be over it.
And maybe — just maybe — you’re allowed to rebuild. But this time, not because you’re afraid of people coming in… but because you’re still learning to trust yourself to know who’s worth opening the door for.