There is something fun about being alone. 

I don’t have this ethereal hand reaching out from behind me, covering my mouth.  Or that sinister voice whispering in my ear telling me “they don’t care about you.”  Or the mysterious heart spasms that tempt me to stop in the middle of the road as I cross Broadway late at night.

Just me and the dim laptop screen, laying on the bed.

I know this bed better than my old friends.  Every crack and crevice.  It envelops me, and comforts me when I hear laughter from my window or shrieks from the next door.  It understands me.

I sleep here, I eat here, I study here.  I live here.

They know better than to seek me or invite me out anymore.  I am too busy for them anyway.  They knew I would say no. 

I can’t really blame them.  My company isn’t worth much these days.  It never was, but at least before, I could drop a humorous line or two.

Now I spew acidic words at strangers until they hasten away and I pull the hood of my sweater over my head as my worn out flats splash on a rainy Manhattan day. 

What was once a psychological revelation has been relegated to a cheap cliche.  Isn’t it funny how in a city of millions you could ever feel so alone? 

I have chipped away at every connection I had.  Only one friends stands with me...but I will give her time.  She will soon realize that I am a burden.  She will go home to her loving boyfriend who will make love to her both physically and mentally.  Then, she will come back, cheeks flushed, to me...but only for an assignment.  She will eventually find someone else, perhaps an engineer who can support her.  Soon I will be getting texts.  “Sorry I’m busy.” 

I am too busy for her anyway.

I would go home to the only two people who love me unconditionally, but alas, I am a slave to these keys and this dimly lit screen that I have substituted for human contact. 

Unfortunately, I am too busy, even for them.

I sometimes think of explaining myself.  Telling the others.  Maybe they’ll understand.

But I know too well how this story will end.  At first, they will repeatedly console me, but then they will slowly grow weary.  They will ask me, “are you seeing someone about this?”  I will say yes and they will look away with embarrassment.  I am a lost cause. 
Then I will drift even further.  I might even quit the group all together.   Who needs them? 

Maybe they will weep for me.  Maybe I will trigger some inch of remorse.  Maybe I will temporarily fill what was once happiness with mourning. 

But even that too will pass.  Years from now, they will get a big job, move to a new city, meet the love of their lives.  And then, they will forget my name.

So what’s the point?  There does not seem to be an out.   So I will continue suffocating in silence.  I will continue to stand on the side of the room, quietly observing. 

I will idly play the game of “Hi. How are you?” Over and over and over again.  Maybe I’ll grow tired of it someday.  Maybe I will stop saying that too.

But it is clear to me that there is no immediate solution to this boredom. 

So I will continue to plod along this forlorn road with puddles splashing on my jeans, wondering why we are here at all.