I think that growing up just means that you're a little bit lonely all of the time.
Like, you have friends. You have lots of friends. But half of them live across the country because you all moved after you finished school. The ones who live in your town are closer, but busy (you're busy too). You see each other on weekends and Tuesdays after work, but it is never quite long enough. You eat lunch in the park, surrounded by people, but you don't know anyone. On Fridays, you go out with friends into the neon city, but most other dinners are spent in your apartment watching through the window as golden dusk melts to blue. You text some of your friends every day—send them pictures of your cat and funny posts and stories of recent dates—and sometimes they respond. Often, they're busy (you're busy too). It's not for lack of trying, it's just that you live in different places now, with different jobs and hours and routines. You see your coworkers every day. You haven't seen your college roommate in three years. Your brother wants to visit. Your friend and her partner are moving away to chase a new job opportunity. You try decide to try dating. Some people stick, and you love them for as long as you can. Others don't, and you let them drift but you can't help but remember their birthday and think of them when you see their favorite cereal in the grocery store. Maybe you buy a cat, or a dog, or some plants. Maybe you don't. Your bed is bigger than when you were young, which is nice because it means more space. But it is also emptier, colder. You talk to your mother on Saturdays and are glad that you no longer live at home. Are sad that she is too far away to hug you. Are confused about how time passed so quickly. Sometimes, when you cook, you use old family recipes and remember when you used to make them with your sister, your father, your aunt. You often make too much, and you store the extras in tupperware. It is nice to have leftovers. (You wish you had someone to share with.) In the morning, you go on a run or a walk or lie in bed. This solitude is pleasant and quiet and a space to breathe before (or after) a busy week. But you are aware of the stillness as you walk through your home, aware of the faces you don't know as you pass by them. There are lots of people everywhere. You have dozens of coworkers. You go to yoga, know the names of the people who sit beside you. You have friends. You have lots of friends. But it's not like when you were young. It's not like when you went to school and everyone grew up together. Instead, you're still growing but branching apart. You see others in your periphery. Siblings, friends, a coworker, old roommates. You reach for them, they reach back. Come for dinner, you say, and they do, but you are no longer eighteen, and both of you have work tomorrow. You linger in the doorway as they say goodbye, hold on to the threads of the conversation, dread whoever will be the first to cut it (and someone always has to, someone always has to leave first). After they leave, you find a jacket they forgot, and you hold it in your hands. Maybe you follow them out, hand it back, but probably you don't. You'll forget it by tomorrow. You'll keep it forever. You'll text them about it in the morning, and maybe they will come again. Or maybe they won't (but it's not for lack of trying, it's just that they're busy, you're busy too). The fabric is heavy and warm against your palm. When you fall asleep, the sheets pull tight around your ankles. Moonlight seeps across your comforter. Your pillow is soft, but cold too. A fan whirs and someone else's dog barks outside your window. On the sidewalk, someone laughs, and in the dark, you can hear your own breathing: empty and warm and the only thing there to hold you as you surrender yourself to sleep.
