“Aren’t you the loneliest person in the world?” I sighed as I read that question on my monitor. You, out of several other people that I know. You, a stranger, living behind old paintings and music blocks. You, whom I’ve never met, who exists in one of those blinking city lights. You, nowhere boy, said that to me.
I shut my computer down. I swore to god or whoever it is controlling this whole damn thing to never have to read your pretentious tone again. I bid my colleagues goodbye, promised them a drink, and walked downstairs. My head was clouded by your question. I could just tell you to fuck off, but I didn’t. Nobody has ever said that to me before. I’m always the happiest, the one with no boulders, the shoulder to cry on. I’m not lonely. I muttered to myself.
The sky looked a little pink that evening. I remember how butterflies swirled next to me as I walked down the main street. I hated it.
Am I the loneliest person? How could someone say that to me?
I live a quiet life. I don’t go out very often. I have a small set of friends, some stray cats, and bottles of cider. I like it this way. Besides, I don’t talk much about my personal life. So, you, an unknown soul, accusing me of being lonely was out of the line.
I taped my webcams. Unbeknownst to me, my anxiety was taking charge of everything. I thought you were a criminal mastermind, hacked into my systems and peeked into my life. Hence, the question.
I’ve prepared blankets and tent on my rooftop to watch the full moon that night. The wind was rather chilly and cold from the drizzle. I still remember the smell of fried rice and the remarkable sound of putu seller accompanied the first ten minutes of my monthly ritual, moon watching.
The moon looked yellow at 9:45 that night. Unusual, I thought. The moon is supposed to look white after 8. I jotted this unique characteristic in my little journal and compared it with my previous records. The moon looked yellow at 10 sometime last year. Weird, I thought.
I checked my phone a couple times to make sure that I’ve replied to my mother’s texts. My best friend texted me saying that she’s moving in with her new boyfriend, and she’s never been happier. “Good for you, mate.” I replied, mentally. Not physically. I was too lazy to deal with conversations. I like my phone silent and my night dark. I like this aloneness.
I glanced over the cityscape that night. Wondering what’s behind every yellow and red and blue and whites. Every light keeps million stories. Windows to lives that I’ll probably never be aware of. Billions of complexity. One of them is probably as simple as that fried rice seller who just passed me by, one of them could be a dangerous criminal, one of them could be a woman nursing her daughter, a father losing his mind, a son crying in his closet, a girl punching her abusive boyfriend. One of them could be you, making assumptions about my life.
I lit my cigarette. I don’t even smoke. If I were the loneliest person in the world, I wouldn’t find any comfort in the company of the moon and city lights.
I opened my laptop and searched for your message. I typed, “Aren’t you the loneliest person in the world?”