A Haunting Kind
of Loneliness
Isabella
The subway hums beneath me, rattling along the tracks as I lean my head back against the window, staring at my own reflection in the darkened glass. The city blurs past, lights streaking like ghosts, neon bleeding into the night.
I should feel something. Relief, maybe. Or guilt. Something to mark the hour I’ve spent inside Dr. Monroe’s office, dissecting pieces of myself like an autopsy. But I feel nothing.
She wants me to talk to my mother, every session she mentions it to me.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, an anchor pulling me under.
How do you tell the woman who gave you life that she let you rot? That she stood by and watched as you were broken piece by piece? That she didn’t reach for you when you were drowning, that she left you in the dark, in the silence, in the fear?
The subway rumbles beneath me, rocking gently as it snakes through the tunnels. The air is thick with the scent of metal, damp concrete, and too many bodies pressed too close together. I keep my head against the window, watching the reflection of the passengers more than the darkness outside.
A man a few seats down argues with someone over the phone.A woman with tired eyes clutches a worn tote bag, her fingers twisting the strap like it’s the only thing holding her together. A teenager taps at his screen, lost in the glow of his phone.
Life moves on, indifferent.
The train lurches, slowing as it nears my stop. I exhale, bracing myself as the doors slide open with a hiss. The platform is mostly empty, just a few stragglers waiting for the next train, their heads bowed against the cold. My boots echo against the concrete as I climb the steps, emerging into the night.
New York hums around me, alive even now. The streets are slick from earlier rain, puddles reflecting the neon glow of signs and traffic lights. Cabs blur past, headlights cutting through the darkness. The city never sleeps, but I need to get out of it.
I pull my coat tighter around myself and make my way to the bus stop. The next bus isn’t due for another ten minutes, so I sink onto the metal bench, ignoring the damp chill seeping through my jeans. My work phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t check it. My personal phone is dead, has been for weeks.
The bus arrives with a wheeze of brakes, and I step on, swiping my card without looking at the driver. The seats are mostly empty, just a handful of passengers scattered throughout. I take a window seat near the middle, resting my forehead against the cool glass.
As the city begins to thin out, the scenery shifts. Buildings give way to stretches of highway, the glow of streetlights growing further apart. Eventually, the landscape turns darker, swallowed by trees and winding roads. The bus ride is long, but I don’t mind. It’s easier to breathe out here, away from the weight of so many lives pressing in at once.
By the time I reach my stop, the bus is nearly empty. The driver barely glances at me as I step off, the doors hissing shut behind me. The road is quiet, lined with tall trees that sway in the wind. A single streetlamp flickers, casting long shadows across thepavement.
Home is a short walk from here, if I can call it that. The air smells like damp earth and fallen leaves, the remnants of rain still clinging to the world. My boots crunch against the gravel as I make my way down the familiar path.
Ada insisted I take the night off. She said I should rest. She didn’t phrase it like a suggestion though. It was a demand.
I hadn’t argued. Not because I agreed, but because I didn’t have the energy to go against her.
The house is dark when I unlock the door, stepping inside. The air is still, carrying the faintest traces of Ada’s perfume, but she’s not home. I already knew she wouldn’t be. She’s working tonight, and I’m supposed to be ‘resting.’
I shut the door behind me, locking it out of habit, though there’s no real need. We’re far enough from the city that danger doesn’t lurk on every corner, but old instincts die hard.
I flick on a lamp, kicking off my shoes as I walk further inside. Everything feels too quiet, too empty. I drop my bag on the couch, rubbing a hand over my face, exhaustion pressing down on me.
Outside, the wind moves through the trees, branches scraping against the windows, the only sound in the dark.
The entryway is small, leading into a hallway with hardwood floors that creak under my weight. The walls are bare except for a few framed photographs, Ada’s touch, not mine. They’re of places, not people. A misty forest. A quiet lake. A field bathed in golden light. She once told me that homes should be filled with beauty, even if it’s just borrowed.
Ada understands the weight of emptiness better than most. She lost her parents young: an accident on a road slick with rain, a moment of carelessness that stole them from her before she even had the chance to know them. But even before they were gone, they were never really there. She grew up in a house wheresilence was the loudest thing, where love was something distant, theoretical. A thing she watched happen to other people.
She never talks much about her childhood, but I know enough. That she was raised by an aunt who saw her more as an obligation than a person. That she learned early how to take care of herself because no one else would. That she’s spent her whole life trying to make up for the things she never had.
Maybe that’s why she clings so hard to the idea of beauty. Why she fills the spaces around her with soft things, warm light, quiet reminders that life can still hold something gentle. It’s her way of fighting back against the emptiness.
Ada doesn’t just survive. She builds. She stitches together a life out of what little the world gives her, and she makes it something worth holding on to.
I only learned this a few weeks ago. Before we lived together, before she took me in, I didn’t know much about her personal life. We worked together, kept things professional. She was just Ada: the sharp, composed woman who never let anything slip past her. But ever since she sheltered me, we’ve been coming closer, pieces of ourselves unraveling in the dim quiet of this house.
