The Quiet of the Cold Kitchen

Dear Delyara, It is 2:15 AM, and I am sitting at the small kitchen table eating a bowl of plain cereal straight out of the box because cooking an actual meal feels like an impossible task for someone who lives completely alone. The silence in this flat isn't just an absence of sound; it’s a physical weight that sits in the corner of the room, heavy and unmoving, watching me live. I realized tonight that I haven't had a proper conversation with anyone in four days—just quick transactions with shop assistants and nods to the neighbors. This kind of chronic, structural isolation feels like a slow leak in your soul, draining away your confidence until you start to wonder if you’ve completely forgotten how to connect with the rest of the world. I look at the old contact list on my phone, but the gap feels too wide to cross with a screen.