Liminal Houses
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There are two ways to be alone.

One is peaceful. One is letting your world sink into your exposed skin. Then, you feel the wind rush against your cheeks and the slight cold beneath your hoodie, but you still feel warm. You might be dwarfed by the vastness of existence, overcome by the pure awe of it all, but you also see your place in it all. See the beauty of it.

The other kind of alone is how you feel now, and it’s not beautiful.

There is nobody here for you. There is only the creek of floorboards beneath your too heavy feet, the doors that slam behind you, and the silence that can’t be broken even if you scream at the top of your lungs. The last syllables cut off too quickly, absorbed by a stillness in the air. You cling to every sensation you can grasp, nothing lasting longer than a few seconds.

It is as if you are a ghost in your own home.

And it is your home, isn’t it?

You can’t help but imagine that if there were other people here, they wouldn’t see you. Not that you’d be transparent. Not that you’d be intangible. Just… unnoticeable. You are out of phase with the universe, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to leave any sort of lasting impact.

You could break something, break yourself, but the pain wouldn’t last. Just the damage.

And you won’t be alone forever. There’ll be the warmth of company in you again, filling the gapping hole in your chest, even if it is just for a little bit. That you, the one that knows what it means to feel seen, won’t want that. So for her sake, you just keep waiting in the liminal space of this too big universe.

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