Two Faces of Solitude
Alexandra Hart stood before a giltframed mirror, biting the lower lip. Her fingers fidgeted, tucking a stray curl into a perfect chignon as if the world hinged on that precise twist.
Thirtyfive. The age advertisers crown the prime of life, diaries label the crisis. A thriving career, a cosy flat in central London, friends ready at a moments notice to debate everythingfrom Brexit to the latest rosescented moisturiser.
When the evening door clicked shut and the phone fell silent, a hush rose like surf on a nighttime pier, louder than the citys distant hum.
Another date, she sighed, eyeing the reflected silhouette.
The dress clung elegantly, modest yet striking. Light makeup highlighted her eyes without looking overdone. Heels were high enough to command attention, not so high as to scream desperation. Every detail was rehearsed, as if she were not meeting a man but sitting an exam judged by strict criteria.
She knew what she wanted: not just a relationship but true love, the kind that seeps into the hidden chambers of the soul where words are unnecessary, a single glance or touch saying everything. Yet each time a new gentleman slipped into a café or bistro opposite her, a sardonic voice echoed in her mind:
What if he turns out like the last one?
The last one the almostperfect one shed begun to believe might be the one. Their bond shattered over daily routines, his refusal to speak of feelings, her attempts to fix, understand, adjust. She devoured dozens of psychology books, filled notebooks with training notes, dissected every mistake as if it were a complex equation. The more she understood, the scarier it became to open herself again.
Perhaps I ask for too much? she whispered, staring at the phone screen.
A new message pinged. The interesting gentleman from a dating site: clever, witty, no red flags. She smiled at his words, but her lips instantly tightened into a thin line.
What if he disappoints?
And the void returned: night, silence, mirror, a question still without answer.
Freedom to Be
Emily Whitfield settled into a corner of her favourite café, where overstuffed sofas molded to the body and the scent of freshly ground coffee swirled with vanilla. In her hands she turned the pages of a new novel, fingers lingering on favourite lines, leaving faint creases in the corners.
Fortytwo. Just a number on a passport, yet inside a sea of energy churned the feeling that the greatest adventures still lay ahead.
Emily, still on your own? a familiar voice called, pulling her from the book. Her friend Charlotte, hair a little wild from a long workday, was already flagging down the waitress for her regular latte with caramel.
Emily closed the book, exposing a cover of bright abstract art. Yes, she replied, her smile as calm as a lake on a windless morning. But Im not lonely.
She caught surprised looks from friends, acquaintances, even strangers. How could a striking, intelligent woman be solitary? Emily no longer needed to explain. She discovered love not in waiting for a prince, but in morning coffee on the balcony, spontaneous trips to the coast, projects that lit her eyes, and friends who saw her without masks.
What about that handsome chap from last week? Charlotte teased, waving a dessert spoon. The one who took you to the jazz gig? You adore jazz!
Charming, Emily laughed, the sound free of tension. But Im not ready to mould myself to anyones expectations. She paused, watching the waitress place a frothy cup before Charlotte. If he wants to stay, let him chase. As for me her fingers found the bookmarked page, Im already where Im heading.
Loneliness? The word felt wrong. It was freedom light as a summer breeze, rooted as an ancient oak. Freedom to choose tomorrows turn, to wake and sleep in harmony with oneself. Freedom simply to be.
Two Faces of Solitude
Alexandra closed the flats door, slipped off her heels and sank onto the edge of the bed. The evening dress, still scented with anothers perfume and restaurant aromas, suddenly seemed absurd. The date had gone well an articulate companion, engaging topics, exquisite food. Yet when he reached for her hand, something inside tightened. Not fear, merely a quiet realisation: another polished, intelligent, proper man, and the same icy emptiness blossomed in her chest.
She moved to the window, pressed her palm against the cold glass. The city glittered, life bustling somewhere beyond, people meeting and parting. Inside her immaculate flat, surrounded by costly things, she felt adrift.
Why is this so hard? she murmured to her reflection in the dark pane. The question hovered, unanswered, as always.
Across town, Emily reclined in a wicker chair on her balcony. In one hand a glass of red wine, in the other a cigarette she allowed herself only once a month. The night breeze teased her loose hair, while a sultry jazz melody poured from the speakers.
She closed her eyes, letting the music envelop her. No thoughts of missed dates or unfulfilled dreams flickered; only the present the tart taste of wine on her lips, the cool night air, distant city lights scattered like spilled jewels.
Emily no longer awaited a prince. She understood long ago that no fairytale hero could make her happier than she could herself. Every evening, every sunrise, every minute belonged solely to her. In that there was no solitude there was an intoxicating, absolute freedom to exist as herself.
She raised the glass in a silent toast to herself, to the night, to the remarkable life shed crafted. A queen needs no throne her kingdom was wherever she felt joy. Tonight it was the eleventhfloor balcony, a fine glass of wine, and stars bright enough to stitch the night sky.
Two women. Two universes.
Alexandra and Emily lived in the same city, breathed the same air, yet inhabited entirely different realities.
Alexandra moved through life with an outstretched hand emptiness cradled in her palm, desperate to be filled. Each date, each fresh acquaintance was a quest for someone to give her what she lacked: a sense of being needed, warmth, belonging. She believed love was an external force that would complete her. The harder she searched, the larger the void grew inside.
Emily walked with arms wide open not because she awaited someone to fill them, but because her world was already brimming. Full of experiences, liberty, quiet joy in simple things. She didnt chase love; she radiated it, drawing people naturally. She never built castles in the air, she simply lived. In her life there was room for solitude, meetings, partings, new roads.
Perhaps their paths will cross someday. Perhaps Alexandra will realise the emptiness stemmed not from a lack of love but from an inability to love herself. Perhaps Emily will meet someone who asks nothing of her, who simply walks beside her without disturbing her harmony. Or perhaps not.
For now their stories stand as two different answers to the same question.
Love does not come to those who hunt it; it arrives for those who already live with an open heart not because they wait, but because they know how to give.
And the greatest lesson unfolds: it is not about finding someone to fill the gap, but learning to be whole without them. Only then does love cease to be a rescue and become simply happiness.
