As a child, I would cry quietly, longing for someone to comfort me, to hug me when I was sad, but no one ever did. That yearning for attention, for validation, stayed with me well into adulthood. But when I met Cara, everything changed. This is the story of my journey from childhood loneliness to a love that finally saw me.
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How did I end up in this predicament?
I wasn’t an angry child; I was a quiet one. There is a difference, but people rarely notice it. Anger is loud, explosive, a force that demands attention. Quietness, though—that’s what goes unnoticed. People assume you’re fine when you’re silent, that you don’t need anything. What they don’t realise is that silence can be louder than words, and that quiet kids are often the ones who scream the loudest inside.
As a child, I spent hours sitting by my bedroom window, staring at the rain-soaked streets outside. The grey clouds above seemed to echo the emptiness I felt inside. My room was small, cluttered with toys and forgotten drawings, but it always felt too big. Too empty. I would cry sometimes—not in the noisy, theatrical way that gets you attention, but in the silent, restrained way that you hope someone will notice without you having to explain. I cried because I wanted someone to notice the sadness behind my eyes, to see the loneliness hidden in my silence. But no one ever did.
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I imagined, sometimes, that my door would open. In my daydreams, my mother would walk in, wrap me in her arms, and tell me everything was going to be okay. Or maybe my father would sit down beside me, pat my shoulder, and ask what was wrong. But the door never opened. The house was always quiet, save for the ticking of a distant clock, marking time that seemed to stretch endlessly.
Looking back, I realise now that I was waiting for something that was never going to come. I wasn’t invisible to my family, but I may as well have been. They were busy—always too busy to notice my quiet suffering. My father worked long hours, and my mother was perpetually lost in her own world, juggling responsibilities, and exhaustion. I don’t think it was neglect in the traditional sense. It was more like they just didn’t know how to be present.
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Why did I think getting sick was the answer?
It sounds ridiculous now, but as a kid, I started to think that maybe getting sick would solve everything. If I got really ill, they would have to notice me, right? I pictured myself lying in bed, too weak to move, and my parents hovering over me with concern in their eyes. They’d bring me soup, tuck blankets around me, and sit by my side, finally seeing me.
I even tried to get sick deliberately. I’d stay out in the cold without a jacket, hoping to catch a fever. I’d fake coughs, but my attempts were pathetic at best—more like stifled laughter than anything convincing. One time, I even held a thermometer near a lamp to bump up my temperature, only for my mother to catch me and dismiss it with a sigh and a, "You are fine. Don’t play around."
In retrospect, it is clear that I wasn’t asking for much. I wasn’t demanding expensive toys or lavish attention. I just wanted to feel seen, to be acknowledged. I wanted someone to look at me and say, "I understand. I am here." But in the whirlwind of their own lives, my parents didn’t realise what I needed.
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What changed after I left home?
Adulthood, for me, was a strange continuation of that childhood longing. I carried the loneliness with me, packed neatly into the corners of my mind like an old suitcase that I couldn’t leave behind. I’d grown accustomed to being self-sufficient. I’d stopped waiting for people to notice me, because life had taught me that no one was going to.
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I built walls—thick, impenetrable ones. I told myself that I didn’t need anyone. If no one had come when I was a child, what made me think they’d come now? And so, I learned to stand alone. But the thing about loneliness is that it becomes a habit, one you can’t break even when you’re surrounded by people.
It wasn’t until much later that I realised I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. Studies show that 61% of adults report experiencing loneliness, especially in our modern, hyper-connected world. It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re all constantly connected through social media, texting, and the internet, but the more ‘connected’ we become, the lonelier we feel. The quiet epidemic of loneliness has infiltrated almost every age group. I didn’t know that then, of course. I thought my isolation was unique to me.
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Does romance ever change things?
By the time I reached my mid-twenties, I had convinced myself that relationships were not for me. I was awkward in social situations, not the kind of person who could easily slide into someone’s life with charm and grace. My dating life was non-existent, mostly because I didn’t think anyone would be interested in someone like me.
Then came Cara.
I met her in the most ordinary of circumstances—at a small, local coffee shop. It wasn’t the kind of meet-cute you see in romantic comedies. In fact, I spilled coffee on her book, which earned me a death glare so intense I was sure I’d be vaporised on the spot. She had this look of sheer disbelief, like I had just committed the ultimate sin by ruining her favourite novel. I scrambled to apologise, my words tripping over each other in a flurry of awkwardness.
What happened next was surprising. Instead of storming off or giving me an earful, she smiled. It was a small smile, but it was enough to break the ice. We got to talking, and before I knew it, we had spent an hour discussing everything from books to the absurdity of coffee shop prices.
Cara was not like anyone I had ever met. She had a wildness about her—like she was constantly on the edge of running towards an adventure or laughing at the absurdity of life. Her hair was untamed, curly and always slightly messy, and her eyes—large, brown, and full of life—seemed to hold stories I desperately wanted to know.
But what struck me most about Cara was how she made me feel. For the first time, I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t a background character in someone else’s story. When she looked at me, it was like she saw every part of me—the good, the bad, the damaged, and the whole. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
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Did Cara change everything?
Cara didn’t ‘fix’ me. This isn’t that kind of story. I was still me—awkward, sometimes withdrawn, still carrying that invisible loneliness. But what she did was far more important: she saw me. And in seeing me, she gave me permission to exist in a way that I hadn’t before.
We didn’t have a whirlwind romance. There were no grand declarations of love or dramatic gestures. Instead, our love grew slowly, like the way the sun rises—softly at first, almost imperceptibly, until one day it is there, lighting up everything.
Cara was never one for sappy sentimentality. She didn’t coddle me, didn’t baby me. She called me out when I retreated into my old patterns of silence. "You are doing that thing again," she’d say, her tone a mix of exasperation and affection. "The thing where you disappear into yourself. Stop it."
She pushed me to confront the things I had buried for so long. My tendency to wallow in self-pity, my old wounds from a childhood spent waiting for affection that never came. But she did it in a way that didn’t feel cruel. It felt like someone holding up a mirror and gently saying, "Look, this is you. And that’s okay."
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Why is it important to talk about loneliness?
Loneliness is an odd thing. It is not just about being alone; it is about feeling unseen, even when you’re surrounded by people. According to recent data, one in three adults say they feel lonely on a regular basis. In fact, research suggests that loneliness can be as harmful to your health as smoking 15 cigarettes a day.
But here is the thing no one talks about—loneliness is deeply tied to shame. We are ashamed to admit that we are lonely, as if it is a personal failing. In my case, I never spoke about it as a child because I thought that wanting attention, wanting affection, was somehow weak. And that shame followed me well into adulthood.
It wasn’t until Cara that I began to understand the importance of being vulnerable, of admitting that sometimes, yes, I was lonely. That I still, occasionally, longed for someone to just hold me and tell me it was okay.
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Did I ever get that hug?
Here is the bittersweet truth: I never got that hug from my parents. Not the one I had imagined as a child. They were good people, but they were emotionally distant in ways I didn’t fully grasp back then. They were products of their own upbringing, their own struggles. And while they provided for me materially, they didn’t know how to offer the emotional support I craved.
But with Cara, I learned that comfort doesn’t always come in the form you expect. Sometimes, it is not a hug. Sometimes, it is someone looking at you across the table and saying, "I see you." Sometimes, it is stealing fries off each other’s plates or laughing at inside jokes that no one else understands.
And sometimes, it is about finding that connection within yourself. I learned that I could give myself the validation I had spent so many years seeking from others. I didn’t need to get sick to be noticed. I didn’t need to cry by the window, waiting for someone to care. Because, in the end, I learned to care about myself.
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What about now?
Now, I no longer sit by windows, hoping for someone to notice my sadness. I have grown into a person who understands that it is okay to be vulnerable, to ask for what you need. I still get lonely sometimes. Everyone does. But it no longer defines me. I no longer wait for someone to fill the emptiness inside me. I have learned to fill it myself.
And I have Cara to thank for that. Not because she swooped in and saved me, but because she showed me that it is okay to be seen, even in the moments when you’d rather hide.
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A few Frequently Asked Questions:
Q: Is loneliness more common now than before?
Yes, research shows that loneliness has increased by 20% in recent years, likely due to factors like social media and modern living arrangements.
Q: How do I deal with loneliness?
Acknowledge it, talk about it with someone you trust, and engage in activities that bring you joy. Loneliness is a feeling, not a permanent state.
Q: Can romantic relationships cure loneliness?
Not entirely. While relationships can help, it’s crucial to find inner peace and fulfilment. No one else can "fix" you.
Why is it important to talk about loneliness?
Talking about loneliness helps reduce the stigma surrounding it. Admitting you feel lonely is the first step toward healing.
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Tushar Mangl is the author of The Avenging Act. He writes on topics like mental health, Vastu, and the art of living a balanced life. With titles like *Hey Honey Bunch* and *Ardika*, he seeks to create a greener, better society.
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