All my friends had settled into their love lives—even my ex had found someone new. Meanwhile, I remained alone, year after year.
I’m thirty now, and in truth, this is far from the happiest time of my life. The years slip by, yet I still can’t break free from this endless cycle of solitude. Nearly five years have passed since my husband and I divorced. It ought to feel like an age, yet here I am, still on my own.
Sometimes, I catch myself thinking my best years are slipping through my fingers. I face them not in the warmth of a lover’s embrace, not amid the chatter of family breakfasts or the laughter of children, but in silence, broken only by the relentless ticking of my anxious thoughts. It’s a cruel twist—back at university, I was the belle of the faculty, admired by so many. Back then, choosing a partner felt like a matter of preference. Now? Not a whisper of that time remains.
My former suitors have long settled down—some with two children already. Even the girls I once dismissed as plain have long been married, posting holiday snaps with their families. And me? I’m trapped somewhere between “there’s still time” and “no one wants me anymore.”
Few friends are left. Some are lost to school plays and ballet recitals, others to endless talk of husbands, household chores, and home improvements. We share less and less, and with every meeting, we grow further apart. I’m invited to birthdays out of politeness, and I go—because where else would I go?
I tried. Truly, I did. I bought a gym membership, hoping perhaps for a chance encounter amid the treadmills. A foolish thought—all I got was a polite smile by the mirrors.
Then came the last resort—a dating app. Surely, I thought, fear couldn’t hold me back forever? Perhaps the fault was mine. But disappointment followed. Most were men seeking fleeting amusement. Others expected me to foot the bill at dinner. Or worse—invited me over for “coffee” after the first chat. Not charm. Just rudeness, pure and simple.
And if by chance someone seemed decent? The man who turned up bore no resemblance to his profile—neither in looks, wit, nor age. Soon, I dreaded these encounters. I wanted an equal, a mature companion, not some overgrown boy in need of a nursemaid rather than a partner.
Three years of this. Some days, I wondered if I should never have divorced. Yet I knew—things had been unbearable then, with reasons enough to part. But he, my ex, had rebuilt his life. A young wife, a child soon to arrive. And me? Silence. Emptiness. A shameful envy I couldn’t shake. And pain—because I still hadn’t found anyone, and the ache of feeling unwanted had become my constant hum.
My doubts now choke me. I’ve stopped believing I’m worthy of love. I avert my gaze from happy couples, as though cursed. No one to break this wretched spell of loneliness.
I don’t know what to do. How do I escape this loop? How do I believe again that I’m not just another face in the crowd—that someone could love me? That it’s not too late?
Perhaps you have an answer… Because I’ve run out of strength, and faith.
