What if the loneliest place is right beside the person you love?

And I know that might not make sense to some people, because I’m not alone. I’m in a relationship. I have someone.

But that’s what makes it harder to say out loud. Because when you have someone, when you share a bed, a routine, a whole stretch of your life, you’re not really “allowed” to say you feel alone without it sounding like an accusation. Or like something’s broken. Or like you’re ungrateful.

But it’s not about blame. It’s not about him. Or her. Or them.

It’s about me. About a kind of ache I didn’t even know I’d been carrying until I sat still long enough to feel it.

It’s the kind of loneliness that doesn’t always come from absence. Sometimes it shows up in the quiet moments where you wish someone would ask how your heart is and really mean it. Sometimes it shows up in the way you stop sharing the little things, because you don’t want to feel brushed off or unheard. Sometimes it shows up in laughter that doesn’t quite reach both of you anymore.

And the worst part is, you can’t always explain it. Because there’s nothing wrong. No big fight. No betrayal. Just space. Quiet. Disconnect.

And still, you show up. You cook. You check in. You text back. You plan things. You love them.

But the truth is, you miss being seen. You miss the version of you that used to show up more fully. You miss knowing that when you speak, someone’s really listening, not just hearing. You miss emotional intimacy. Not just being near someone, but being felt.

And I think a lot of people are walking around with this kind of loneliness. The “I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do” kind. The “we’re good on paper, but something feels off” kind. The “I don’t even know how to bring it up without making it worse” kind.

So I’m just saying it. For me. And maybe for you, too.

I think I’m lonely. And I think naming it matters. Because pretending not to be only makes it louder.

And no, I don’t have a solution. I don’t have a perfect next step. But I know that silence and shame aren’t the answer either.

So maybe this is just my way of opening the door. To more honest conversations. To more tender truths. To the parts of ourselves we’ve been tucking away so we don’t rock the boat.

If this resonates, just know you’re not alone in your loneliness. You’re not broken for wanting more depth, more closeness, more care. And you don’t have to prove your pain by being completely alone before you’re allowed to speak it.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is say, “I love this person... and I still feel like something’s missing.”

That doesn’t make you weak. That makes you human.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s the start of becoming honest with yourself again.