A LONER

EMILY'S PATIENT

The morning after the party felt like a hangover, except I hadn’t touched a single drop of alcohol. My head was heavy, my chest tight, and shame clung to me like sweat after a bad dream.

I woke up late, almost noon, because I’d been tossing and turning most of the night replaying every humiliating second. The moment I walked into the living room and froze. The way I couldn’t even string together a hello. The way I ran upstairs like a child and locked myself in.

And then her voice Emily’s voice outside my door, soft and steady. I understand.

The words had lodged themselves in my chest, glowing faintly even as the shame tried to smother them.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor, willing the memory to fade. But it didn’t. It never did. My brain loved to torture me with replays.

Downstairs, I heard clattering. Daniel was in the kitchen. He whistled like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ambushed me with a living nightmare.

I dragged myself up eventually, each step down the staircase feeling heavier than it should. He looked up when I came in, spatula in hand, grinning.

“Morning, champ,” he said. “Or should I say, afternoon?”

I glared weakly at him. “Why would you do that?” My voice cracked more than I wanted it to.

Daniel sighed, leaning against the counter. “Because, Chris, you can’t hide forever. You’re drowning in here. I thought maybe if you were… pushed, you’d swim.”

“Or sink,” I muttered.

He tilted his head, studying me. “You didn’t drown, though. You froze, sure. But you didn’t drown. And did you notice? Emily came to check on you. She gets it.”

The mention of her name made my stomach twist in a different way not panic this time, but something softer, unsettling. “She doesn’t even know me.”

“Maybe not. But she didn’t judge you either.” He slid a plate of eggs toward me. “That girl’s got patience written all over her. You’d be lucky to have her as a friend.”

I didn’t answer, just poked at the food.

After breakfast, I hid in my room again, telling myself I was done thinking about the party, about her. But that night, when I opened my laptop, a message blinked on the screen.

It was from Daniel’s account at first, a shared group chat he had added me to months ago that I never touched. But the name attached was hers.

Emily: Hey. Just wanted to say you did fine yesterday. I know it didn’t feel like it, but you showed up. That counts.

I stared at the words for a long time, my heart thudding.

No one had ever said that to me before. That counts.

I typed, erased, typed again. Finally, I settled on:

Me: Thanks. Sorry I ran off.

Her reply came almost instantly.

Emily: Nothing to be sorry for. We all have our battles. Yours is just more visible sometimes. Doesn’t make it worse.

Something loosened in me. My hands were still shaking, but not from panic this time.

We messaged for an hour that night. Nothing heavy just small things. She asked what I liked to do online. I admitted I’d been hopping between courses, trying to learn skills but failing. She laughed softly, not unkindly and told me failure was just practice in disguise.

By the time I closed my laptop, my chest felt… lighter.

The next day, she came back.

I heard the knock at the door and nearly panicked again, but when Daniel called, “It’s Emily!” something in me shifted.

I opened the door cautiously. She stood there with a small smile, holding two paper cups.

“Peace offering,” she said, handing me one. “Hot chocolate.”

I took it, blinking. “Uh… thanks.”

“Mind if I sit?” she asked, motioning to the living room.

I hesitated. Every instinct screamed to retreat upstairs. But something about her calm, steady gaze rooted me. “Okay,” I muttered.

We sat. Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t sharp. She sipped her drink, waiting.

Finally, I blurted, “I’m not… good at this.”

Her smile was gentle. “That’s okay. I don’t need you to be good at it. I just need you to be here.”

The simplicity of her words disarmed me. She didn’t push. She didn’t fill the silence with chatter. She just… existed next to me.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a specimen under a microscope.

Over the next week, she visited more. Sometimes with Daniel, sometimes alone. Each time, she took things slow.

One afternoon, she suggested, “Want to go for a walk? Just down the block. I’ll be right there.”

The thought made my throat tighten. Outside meant neighbors, strangers, unpredictable encounters. But her eyes were steady, her hand outstretched.

I took it. My palm was clammy, trembling, but she didn’t flinch.

We walked slowly, barely five minutes. My heart raced the whole time, but she talked about simple things the sky, a funny video she saw and somehow, the world didn’t swallow me.

When we got back, I was exhausted, but a strange pride simmered under the anxiety. I had done it.

“See?” she said, squeezing my hand before letting go. “Tiny steps. That’s how we climb mountains.”

Her confidence in me was foreign, almost frightening. But it sparked something: maybe I wasn’t completely broken.

Inside, she often pulled out her laptop, showing me things.

“This is how digital marketing works,” she explained one evening, leaning closer so I could see. Her voice was animated, patient. “You don’t need crowds for this. Just a screen and strategy.”

I listened, hesitant at first, but her enthusiasm was contagious. She encouraged me to try small exercises writing a mock ad, designing a simple page.

I stumbled, made mistakes, wanted to quit. But every time I sighed in frustration, she smiled and said, “Good. That means you’re learning.”

No one had ever reframed failure for me like that.

By the end of the month, I found myself looking forward to her visits. The silence in the house didn’t feel as heavy when I knew she might knock.

Still, the shadows of my fear lingered. One evening, after a particularly rough attempt at an online project, I broke down.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I muttered, clutching my hair. “I don’t know how to be normal.”

Emily’s eyes softened. She reached out, resting her hand lightly on mine. “Christian… you don’t have to be normal. That’s the biggest lie we tell ourselves that there’s one way to be. You just have to be you. That’s enough.”

Her words hit deeper than she could have known. No one had ever told me I was enough not as I was, not without changing.

For the first time in years, I let someone see my tears without running away. And she didn’t flinch. She just stayed.

That night, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized something terrifying and wonderful:

The loneliness I had always cherished… no longer felt like my only safe place.

Because now, there was her.

And maybe, just maybe, I wanted more than just safety.

I wanted connection.