There are always people around.
Always noise.
Always movement.
The subway is packed even late at night. Someone’s music is leaking from their headphones. A train screeches into the station. Someone is yelling into their phone about work, about money, about being late again. I stand there holding the pole, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and somehow still feel invisible.
On my block, there’s always something happening. Sirens. Buses. Neighbors arguing through open windows. Kids playing basketball until the streetlights turn on. You’d think with all this life around me, it would be impossible to feel alone.
But I do.
At school, the hallways are loud, too. People laugh, shove each other, move in groups. Everyone seems like they already belong somewhere. I walk between classes and feel like I’m just passing through other people’s stories, not really part of any of them. Sometimes I talk all day and still feel like no one actually knows me.
After school, I take the long way home. I walk past bodegas with bright lights and shelves packed with snacks. I pass people who look exhausted, people who look like they’re trying not to be. There are couples holding hands, kids yelling, delivery bikes speeding past. So many lives overlapping, so close together, but never touching.
At night, from my window, I can see other windows lit up. TVs glowing. Shadows moving. I wonder what everyone else is dealing with behind those walls. Who’s scared. Who’s overwhelmed. Who’s pretending they’re fine because that’s easier than explaining.
New York teaches you how to move fast. How to mind your business. How to keep going even when you’re tired. But it doesn’t teach you how to say you’re lonely when you’re surrounded by millions of people.
Sometimes I think that’s the hardest part. Not being alone—but feeling like you’re the only one who is.
I wonder how many of us are quietly struggling in the middle of all this noise, hoping someone notices, or at least understands, without us having to say a word.
