Solitary

It was always the resounding silence of the early mornings, the time when those with schedules proving they made something of themselves were tucked tightly into bed, when loneliness struck the hardest.

She had always believed it was black or white—you were alone or you weren’t. But over time, she began to discover the entire spectrum of loneliness. The late-night loneliness was not the kind she felt when she did not want to answer her telephone, but did not know why. It wasn’t the sort she felt when she could tell by his eyes that he would always love another. No. This was the sort of soul-gripping solitary torture that made her question every major decision and analyze every shortcoming of her faulty life. The quiet stillness that came after even the most stubborn of drunks had dragged themselves home. It was this time she dreaded most. She was alone with her thoughts, without the slightest of distractions. She was no match.