vos: my version of lonely.

nights.

I think about the times I’d sit in my car late in the evening, eating something picked up from a drive-thru. I’d use it as an escape. Sometimes it was to avoid getting yelled at back home, other times to stay out of conflict with roommates. During these moments I appreciated the silence. I wasn’t able to unlearn the anxiety that came with hearing a door open or someone knocking, until a year of living alone.

that feeling during a night car ride.

As months of independence passed, food became a comfort. The pain was difficult to ignore on an empty stomach, but I managed to find some solace while killing time, even when eating alone. One night stood out to me: I was driving with Lights Up by Harry Styles playing as the soundtrack of the evening. The first 18 seconds, repeated. Everywhere around me felt warped, and the world outside looked soft. The neon traffic lights blurred as they passed, probably because of my astigmatism, yet it still felt peaceful. Like the world was just slightly out of focus, and I didn’t have to think too hard. For a few minutes, I wasn’t stuck in anything. It was just me, the song, the lights, and a moment of calm. Another moment comparable is 2:32 in Rush (Extended Version) by Troye Sivan.

The quiet was comfortable. And while it felt empty, I was getting used to my reality, that this is my life. I think I reached a point where I recognized I’m meant to be alone. And I’ll end up dying alone. I don’t say that dramatically. It’s just a thought that started to settle in one day and hasn’t left since. Not exactly with sadness, just with a kind of acceptance.

being around without being.

But even then, there are moments where I genuinely enjoy the peace of being alone. Sometimes I’m out, and all I want is to be back in my apartment with my cats. I have found peace in my space, my silence. There have been times I was in a room full of people and felt like I didn’t belong at all. When I disappear, the moment doesn’t change. It never worsens.

I never had that “group” growing up. I’d bounce from one small circle to another in high school, say a quick hi before drifting elsewhere. Most of the time I didn’t know what to say, so I’d be there listening. Occasionally joining in if I had something valuable to add or if someone spoke directly to me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a connection; I just didn’t know how to make it stick.

Even though I’d bounce between a few groups, it never felt like I was truly a part of any. I started listening to the kinds of music they liked: Green Day, All Time Low, even My Chemical Romance. Music felt like one way I could belong, but looking back, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. As I expanded my musical horizon, I eventually discovered what I truly enjoy. While some hadn’t stuck, others contributed to who I am today.

figuring myself out.

In early adulthood, I transitioned from casually listening to music to full-on entering the music scene. In 2018, I attended 34 concerts. Not just going to shows, but sometimes queuing for concerts and hoping I might find a connection there. And for a while, I thought I did. Short-lived friendships lived with moments of shared excitement. But a lot of it was rooted in stan culture, and I recognized that I couldn’t see myself in that. I couldn’t be that obsessed fan devoted to one band or three. Growing older, it became more obvious. As you age through your twenties during a pandemic of halted concerts, you immediately don’t fit in with the target demographic. Those who were there when you first got into a scene have moved on, and those still around are either fresh out of high school or are around the age where a friendship looks and feels wrong.

And while I still enjoy music, I don’t look up to bands like I used to. I always knew they were just people, but the magic I once felt, that intensity that stan culture runs on, just isn’t there anymore. In some cases, I could see myself having a chance in music, despite how foolish I feel years later for being oblivious. Maybe that’s part of maturing. Or maybe it’s just part of realizing what you needed was never really there to begin with.

Even in past relationships, I found myself trying to adjust to my partner’s musical world. I remember trying to get into a band like Movements just so I’d know the songs when going to shows. But it didn’t feel authentic. I wanted to connect, but I couldn’t force myself to love something that didn’t feel like me. And there is someone else out there who does feel it.

ongoing patterns.

Growing up, I had people I considered best friends, but I don’t think they ever considered me theirs. In fifth and sixth grade, I had someone close to me until he moved away. In seventh grade, I had another friend I really connected with before he moved too. Eighth grade brought someone else into my life, but we eventually drifted apart. In high school, there was someone who I saw as a best friend, but it was clear they didn’t feel the same way. Toward the end of high school, I got close to someone again, but a negative roommate experience burned that bridge.

friendship in adulthood.

In adulthood, everything feels more fragmented. A lot more initiative has to be made. People have their routines, whether that be with their partners or their already-formed circles. I’ve tried reaching out to others, but sometimes I wonder if I’m not doing my part right. Like maybe I’m missing some unspoken rule. But relationships of any kind take two people. And somehow, that second half never follows through. I put in effort, try to be patient and hope for the best. But inevitably the connection doesn’t last, or it never fully forms. After a while, you start to ask yourself, Am I the problem?

I didn’t have a traditional college experience either. I wasn’t going to parties or joining clubs or walking around a campus where friendships might’ve happened by accident. Moving out at nineteen, I spent most of my adulthood living in apartments. While initially with roommates, eventually I moved into a studio apartment for just me and my pets. I transitioned from full-time in community college, to part-time, to online classes, to nothing at all. As I built work experience and tried to stay afloat, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d skipped over something important. Like everyone else had gotten a head start on the part of life where people form bonds that last.

There was no dorm to meet people in. No mutual friends who introduced me to their mutual friends. No bar nights that led to group chats or shared rides home or inside jokes that turned into years-long friendships. Just me in my space, focused on surviving while the world kept spinning. Over time, you question what the point is in existing when you’re barely holding on by a thread. If this is how the remainder of my life will be, I don’t want it.

those i hoped for.

I hadn’t had many close guy friends in years, which is oddly difficult to find consistency. And when there is, I worry about being too much. I wish I had consistency from more bros, where they just showed up. Who texted me first. Who remembered my birthday, or checked in just because. Not only when there’s a plan or a reason, but because they cared. I think many men share this desire, but it often gets overshadowed by pride, fear, or the belief that we shouldn’t need each other in that way. But I do. I’ve always wanted that.

The closest I’ve been truly connected with someone has usually been through romantic relationships. It’s one of the only times when I genuinely felt someone wanted to understand me. As if they were actually curious who I was as an individual, not just in passing. But even in those instances, that connection would always reveal an expiration. And once the relationship ended, it wasn’t just a breakup. It felt like I lost both my partner and best friend.

Even in a few situations where we said we’d “stay friends”, I knew what was coming. They’ll move on as soon as someone new enters their life, and I’d fade into the background or be cut off entirely. And they aren’t necessarily a villain for that, like it doesn’t make sense for me to be there. I doubt their new partner would want me around, given how society views ex-partners holding onto friendship. So because the friendship aspect never lasted, I started to expect I’d be tossed aside the moment I was no longer of use.

Fortunately outside of dating, I have found more solid and meaningful friendships with women. They’re more likely to be the ones who would actually make time, asking how I’m doing and staying in touch over the years. I don’t know if that’s just been my experience, or something more profound about how we’re all raised. I wonder if the men who claim it isn’t possible to be friends with those of the desired sex have considered treating them like other people, with hopefully respect.

In reality, I don’t need some big friend group. I just want a few people who I know will still be around in five years. Who I don’t have to start over with every time. Who don’t leave me wondering what I did wrong, or if I mattered to them at all.

I wish I had people who wanted to plan a trip together. Maybe even leave the country someday. I’ve always thought it would be nice to go to concerts with friends, to share those kinds of memories. Even if I’m more tired now than I used to be, the idea is nice to think about. I’ve never been a bar guy or a drinker, but in theory it might’ve been fun to have a wingman or at least try the bar experience with someone who had my back. I never really saw myself as hookup material, so maybe that’s my low self-esteem talking and what held me back. But still, I wish I had people like that in my life. The kind who’d want to do life together, even the little things.

what i tried.

Another way I tried to cope with loneliness in my early twenties was through music production. It gave me something to focus on and build as my own. But when my mental health worsened, I lost my passion for it. I convinced myself I was terrible at it. After the peak of COVID-19, I turned to gaming. Mainly Fortnite, which became a kind of escape. I’d play for hours, usually Fills, but never using my mic or talking to anyone. But strangely, it felt nice sharing space with people without actually having to be present. And while I wasn’t spending money on drugs or anything like that, I spent more than I should’ve on V-Bucks.

Now, writing has become my outlet. It feels a little more productive, as if maybe there’s something lasting in it. I was never great at writing lyrics to go with my music, and I’ve always been drawn to songs that make you feel something through the sound itself, not the words. I think I struggle to say what I mean. But writing like this, getting it all out by reworking the pieces and shaping it into something that feels entirely mine, has been refreshing.

what stuck with me.

There are small moments that make the weight a little lighter. Like getting a coffee and the cashier actually seeming like they care, even if it’s just part of their job. Sometimes it feels genuine, and it reminds me that I can still be kind to others too. Or when I come across someone who just seems like a good soul, and I try to show them warmth because maybe that’ll stick with them, the way I wish it would for me.

People don’t really check in on me. They don’t text me. Even back in middle school, I was always the one who reached out. That hasn’t changed much, though I get it, we all have our own lives going on. There are a couple of people I still keep in touch with, and I’m grateful for them so I try not to overstep. I don’t want to be too much for them to deal with, and to ruin a good thing by needing too much from it.

Over the past few years, I’ve come to recognize that I’m not the only one who feels this way. After discovering I’m autistic last fall, I joined a group on Facebook in the hope of meeting people who understood the world like I do. But that hasn’t worked out either. Some people overshare, while others don’t pick up on social cues as one would expect, and I found myself feeling even more out of place than before. I know it’s not fair to feel annoyed in a public space, despite the feeling sometimes being hard to avoid.

A couple of years back, I thought maybe I’d find a connection through my Jewish background. For years, I have seen Jewish people grow and thrive as a community. And my last name is undeniably Jewish, so maybe they would accept me, too. But lately, I’ve put that part of me back in a shell. With everything going on in the world, I simply no longer feel safe or understood enough to claim it.

While not everyone sees it this way, many assume being Jewish is synonymous with being a Zionist. Zionism is a political movement where the state of Israel is viewed as the Jewish homeland. To put it briefly for now, I don’t agree with many of the decisions made in the world today, and I don’t consider myself a Zionist. Authenticity is one of the most important things to me, and I don’t want to be seen as something I’m not.

When I resumed my college degree and moved to work on my Bachelor’s, I thought, “This is a great time to meet new people!” But reaching this point in your mid-twenties makes it significantly more difficult. Because most of the students in your classes are barely twenty. And while we interact for assignments or discussion posts, it doesn’t really lead anywhere. I looked into academic clubs, with no luck with those either.

So maybe I haven’t found my people yet, and maybe I won’t. But this is still my version of lonely. And if nothing else, I hope someone out there sees themselves in it and feels a little less alone, even if just for a moment.