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No One Truly Knows Me

 

Fish will never understand the freedom birds feel as they soar through the sky. Birds cannot comprehend the confusion that plagues the human heart. Humans, for all their wisdom, cannot grasp the quiet depth of fish beneath the water’s surface. And you—no matter how well you think you know me—can never truly understand my immaturity. You are not me. Only I live in this skin, carry these thoughts, feel this loneliness.

Who else but me can feel the weight of my solitude, my sense of loss, the silent ache of feeling invisible in a world full of people?

Loneliness isn’t loud. It’s quiet—like raising a cup to toast the moon, or staying sober in a room full of drunken laughter. It’s asking, “Who will walk home with me?” and knowing the answer. It’s retreating into a small room, watching the seasons pass through a dusty window, and pretending not to care. That is loneliness. And yes, I’ve come to understand it deeply.

On quiet nights, the breeze slips through the open window, brushing against my skin with a chill that wakes me. I get up and shut the window. Suddenly, the stillness settles in again—heavy and complete. Another night alone. But I no longer fight it. I’ve grown used to the silence.

I eat alone. I walk alone. I hum songs to myself. I drift through the day inside my own thoughts, distant and untethered. I live in a world that feels separate—like an echo, always one step removed from the people around me. I haven’t really spoken to my family in so long. When I come home, we exist near each other, but never together. Even when there's time, I stay in my room, forgetting how to laugh, how to be part of something.

Dad is a quiet man. Always has been. He speaks only when needed, and his face rarely breaks into a smile. His silence has blanketed the house for as long as I can remember, and I’ve adapted, becoming quiet myself—tiptoeing through the halls, afraid to disturb the calm, afraid to disappoint. Our home, once warm with life, now feels hollow.

Mom, once full of light and humor, comes home from work exhausted. Her smiles are gone, her jokes faded. She cooks, she cleans, but barely says a word. I see the redness in her eyes and feel a pang of guilt, a helpless kind of sorrow. Her tired silence has taken away the last bit of joy our home used to have. Some days, I’d rather sit outside under the sky than step inside to face the cold stillness.

The word “homecoming” used to bring comfort. Now it fills me with anxiety. The silence that waits there wraps tighter around me than any winter chill. And so I ask again—how can anyone claim to understand me, if they’ve never lived this life, never sat in this kind of quiet?

You are not me. So how could you truly understand my loneliness?

 
 

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High School English essays 1

 
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