Solitude amid the celebration

The lights flickered insistently, casting fleeting shadows on the walls that felt more alive than the people around me. The colors danced in vibrant hues, yet they couldn’t warm the air. Everything in this scene was crafted to evoke joy, yet my chest felt like an empty drawer no one had bothered to fill. I’ve never felt as if I belonged here.

Faces came and went, some with smiles that never reached their eyes, others with kind words wrapped in velvet but sharp as knives. I feel like a complete stranger surrounded by people I cannot trust. How many of those glances were genuine attempts to connect? How many were simply pretending because that’s what we’re supposed to do during these festive days?

I tried distracting myself with the decorations on the table: the sparkle of glassware, the sweet aroma rising from the dishes, the candles flickering in rhythm with conversations I couldn’t understand or care to. But at its core, everything felt like a theater, and I was merely a spectator trapped in a box seat where no one could see me. I wondered what it might feel like to experience the warmth others claimed to find in these gatherings. Is it real? Or are they lying too when they talk about a sense of home here?

At some point, someone placed a glass in front of me, as if that could fix what was broken. I stared at it for a while, noticing how the liquid reflected the candlelight. It was beautiful, but not enough. I lifted the glass—not to toast, but to feel that at least some part of me was in motion.

A chorus rose, voices singing a familiar song that failed to stir me. Applause followed, as though the melody had mended something, but I remained untouched, encased in this invisible wall no one else seemed to notice. It was as if this day, this celebration, this borrowed joy, had no room for someone like me.

I wondered if belonging is something you find or something you create. What is belonging? What if I never discover the answer?

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