The Loneliness We Never Spoke Of

The loneliest I’ve ever been was sitting next to her.
Not when she was angry. Not when we were fighting. When we were silent.
The kind of silence that settles between two people who have stopped trying to reach each other.
We sat on the same couch. We shared the same space. We went through the motions of partnership.
But we were alone.
I felt it most acutely when I wanted to share something, a thought, a joke, a moment of excitement, and I stopped myself because I knew it wouldn’t land.
The loneliness wasn’t dramatic. It was steady. Quiet. The slow erosion of connection replaced by coexistence.
Alcohol didn’t fix that loneliness. But it softened it.
With bourbon, I could pretend we were still together in a way that mattered. I could reach for her and believe she’d reach back. I could talk and believe she was listening.
The illusion didn’t last. But while it did, it eased the ache.
The truth was we’d stopped being companions. We’d become people managing the same household, navigating the same routines, existing in parallel.
She never named it. I never named it.
We just kept drinking.
Naming it would have required a decision. Neither of us was ready.
So we lived in the space between honesty and denial, and alcohol made that space bearable.
Loneliness isn’t something one person creates. It’s what happens when two people can’t meet each other where they are.
She needed control. I needed freedom.
She needed predictability. I needed spontaneity.
She needed emotional restraint. I needed emotional honesty.
Neither of us was wrong. We were incompatible.
Instead of acknowledging that, we drank.
The loneliness stayed.