I’m burned out from being alone. And what scares me the most is that I’m getting used to it.

I’m 26. I don’t have any friends. Not a single person I can talk to, vent to, or just sit in silence with. I come home and it’s just walls. No warmth, no comfort. I turn on the lights and realize no one’s waiting for me. No one even notices if I’m around. My whole family lives on another continent. We talk every now and then, but it feels more like a formality than a connection. Out here, I feel like a ghost walking through crowds of people. Present, but not really seen.I started smoking. Drinking too. Not every day, but enough to know I’m not doing okay. It’s like I just want to numb myself for a bit. Turn off the noise in my head. Feel nothing, just for a little while.So instead, I write. I create stories, entire worlds where I matter. Where I belong. Where I’m not invisible. In those stories, I feel alive. But outside of them… I’m just drifting.
I’m a 26-year-old guy, and I’m not looking for pity. I just wanted to say it out loud: I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that I’m fine.
If anyone has ever come back from this place — from this quiet, soul-eating loneliness — how did you do it? Because right now, I don’t even know where to start.