There's a peculiar kind of loneliness that comes after. Not the loneliness of never having someone. But the loneliness of having someone, knowing I could say something, and choosing not to.
So I fill the emptiness with everything else.
I start with coffee. Not just drinking it. Learning it. Filter coffee. South Indian coffee. The ritual of it: the metal tumbler, the steel dabarah, the way the stream sounds when I pour it from one vessel to another. How to get the perfect caramel brown, the exact sweetness, the froth that tells you everything about your timing. I become insufferable about it. My friends watch in horror as I critique their instant coffee like they've committed a war crime. "Do you taste the notes?" I ask them. They taste desperation. I buy a better filter. Then another. I learn about the ratio, the exact amount of coffee powder to water. I time it. 6 minutes. Not 5, not 7. Precision. Control. Things I can measure in a life that feels unmeasurable. You learn that coffee is chemistry. Temperature, pressure, timing: all the things a conversation needs that I refused to provide. And maybe if I master this, I think, I can master anything. Even my own heart. (Spoiler: I can't.)
Then comes the kitchen. Dosa. Idli. Sambar. Not just eating them, making them from scratch. My hands covered in batter, kneading it like I'm trying to work out something that can't be spoken. The dough fights back sometimes. It's stubborn. I relate to it immediately. The methodical motion of spreading on the griddle, shaping, the sound when the oil hits the pan. Each motion is meditation. On discipline. On control. On the fact that I can control literally everything except the one thing that matters. I watch videos of aunties making these at midnight. Women from my neighborhood, my mother's friends, strangers from the internet. Their hands move with such certainty. They never hesitate. They never second-guess themselves mid-flip. I make enough dosa for two. Always. Every single batch. Even though there's only one of me sitting at that table. Because maybe if I cook well enough, the universe will send them to my dinner table. My freezer becomes a graveyard of frozen sambar, little containers of hope I can't bring myself to eat or throw away.
Then comes the running. I run 5 kilometres most evenings, usually after college, through the park by the lake to get away from people and clear my head. The water looks beautiful at dusk. Gym on alternate days. Some weeks I make it 4 times, some weeks only 3. Discipline is inconsistent, but the body responds when words won't. I learn guitar and try to sing; the improvement is noticeable. Practising feels honest in a way my silence never was. Psychology books, code, editing suites: things that keep me busy and quiet; I listen to horror podcasts and read about them on Reddit.
Writing screenplays. Plural. So many screenplays. Because maybe in fiction, I can say all the things I couldn't say to them. My protagonist always confesses. Always. Every single script ends with the moment I couldn't have in real life. I've written 47 versions of "I like you" in different genres. A rom-com version. A tragic indie film version. A horror version where confessing is basically like opening a portal to my own demise. (That one hits different.) I learn cinematography and video editing, color grading, transitions, timing, because if I can edit the world, maybe I can edit my fear. I write code nobody asked for, build small apps as private journals, and read novels that make me feel less alone. Learning to edit taught me structure and rhythm; learning guitar and singing taught me patience and vocal honesty.
And then reels: dancing, laughing, wearing bold colours, making people laugh so they won't look too closely. It works for a while. I run early and sometimes again in the evening after college, circling the park by the lake to escape questions. The water calms me. Gym on alternate days. Lifting, pushing, feeling honest exhaustion. (It is always there.)
My religion becomes important again. Not just important. Essential. I go back to the teachings, the rituals, the community. I go back to the people who knew me before all of this. Before the hobbies. Before the avoidance. I pray. I pray a lot. At odd times. In my car. Before sleep. In that moment between waking and dreaming when the walls feel thin. Maybe for guidance. Please tell me what to do. Maybe for forgiveness. I know what I should have done. I didn't do it. Maybe just for the peace that comes from believing in something bigger than my own failures. Something that won't judge me for being a coward. I read the teachings again. Words about courage. About vulnerability. About speaking truth. The universe is very funny sometimes. It keeps putting the exact messages I'm avoiding right in front of my face.
I imagine saying it plainly: "Hey, I need to tell you something. I like you. Not as a friend. I'd rather know than spend forever wondering." Thirty seconds. Maybe a yes, maybe a no. Maybe it would have rewritten everything. Instead I spent years building careful detours: coffee lessons, screenplay drafts, early runs, choosing a quieter, longer pain over thirty seconds of truth. Not everything was wasted: skills, small joys, strength. But I used them to avoid one question. Each reel, run, and line of code became a detour around thirty seconds of courage. This could have been spared by five minutes of courage. Instead I built an architecture of avoidance, skills that were still about them.
I'm faster now. Stronger. Better at editing, coding, cooking. I can frame a shot perfectly. I can grind coffee like a professional. I can make dosa that would make my mother proud. I can lift heavier weights than I could last year. I can edit footage that makes people cry. I just can't frame the truth. The hobbies remain. The growth is real. I'm more capable, more interesting, more something than I was before. But there's a hollow space underneath it all. A space shaped exactly like a conversation that never happened.
And the cruelest part is knowing that every moment I spent learning, growing, and becoming, it was all in a way that was still about them. Still orbiting around the fear of one interaction.
Even now, even in moving forward, I haven't actually moved forward. I've just become so skilled at running that I've convinced myself I was walking. I've convinced myself that all this motion equals progress. That staying busy equals healing. That becoming extraordinary equals moving on. It doesn't. I'm just running faster in place.
If you're building an empire of avoidance, talk to them now, badly, terrified, honestly. Real is better than perfected escape.
I may be alone, but I'm not lonely.