Lonely in Love

I don’t mind being alone.

I need people to understand that before anything else. I don’t hate solitude. I’m not afraid of my own company. There is peace in it, sometimes even comfort.

But loneliness? Loneliness is something else entirely.

When you’ve shared life with someone for 14 years—when you’ve loved so fully that every corner of your world carried the shape of another person—and then it’s gone, it doesn’t just leave an empty space. It seals the door.

I still wish I was with him. I still wake up in a world where part of me reaches for him without thinking. And because of that—because of love that never died—there is no room for anyone else. My faith wouldn’t allow me to fill it anyway, but the truth is, I don’t want to.

I’ve tried to connect with people. God knows I’ve tried. I’ve gone out, met faces, forced conversations, tried to pretend that maybe there’s a place for me out there. And yes, sometimes, in fleeting moments, there’s even a spark of hope.

But it never lasts.

Because the truth is this: I’m not just lonely. I’m lonely in love.

Not love of self. Not the kind of "love yourself first" advice that people throw around like it’s a cure. No. I’m lonely for the love of another, and for the love from another. That’s the kind of love that makes life big. That’s what fills it with spirit and meaning. And without it, everything feels small. Hollow. Dull.

I get it. People don’t understand that. Some look at me and think I’m ungrateful. That I should "just be happy with what I have." But I’m not ungrateful. I’m exhausted. Exhausted from trying to live in a world that keeps rubbing salt in the wound every time I step outside.

Every trip to the grocery store, every stop at the gas station, every casual glance at the lives of others—it’s all a reminder. That I’m an island. That I am surrounded by people but have no one who shares life with me.

And the worst part? I’ve tried to change it. I’ve reached out. I’ve gone to the places, had the conversations, smiled when I wanted to scream. And every single time, I walk away feeling smaller, heavier, and further away from hope.

Every attempt drives my depression deeper.

So I think it’s time to stop trying. To stop forcing myself into spaces that only remind me of what I don’t have. I think it’s time to disconnect—from community, from the world around me—because every time I try to belong, I only end up more broken than before.

And I just can’t do it anymore.

There doesn’t seem to be a way to take this ache away. There’s no way to fill the void because the void isn’t me or within me—it’s the void of another. Of the one I shared communion and love with.

And I am so tired of having the same conversation with people who tell me, "Oh, it will change. You’ll find someone new." I don’t want someone. I don’t want something different. There’s plenty of “different” in the world.

I am missing the one I love. The one I vowed to love for eternity. But more than a vow or covenant—it’s him. The one my heart still cries for. The one who crosses my mind when I first wake up, and throughout the day, and before I go to sleep. The one I still search for when I wake up in the middle of the night and reach across the bed, only to find empty sheets.

And I can say without hesitation: this ache—this hell I am living in—is worse than anything we ever went through together. It is worse than anything I have ever survived.

And nothing softens it.

Dusty Ray ( ?  last name unknown )