Luna Echoes

I walked in, and for a second, I thought I’d feel at ease. Same room. Same faces. Same voices throwing out the same jokes I used to laugh at. But it didn’t land the way it used to.

Someone waved. A few muttered “hey.” One or two smiled without really looking. That was it.

I stood there, not quite sure what to do with myself.

It was strange—knowing every person in the room, recognizing their stories, their habits, their laughs—and still feeling like I didn’t belong. Like I was watching through a glass.

They weren’t ignoring me, not outright. But it felt like I didn’t matter either. Just… there. A placeholder. Background noise.

I tried to join in, laughed a bit, nodded in the right spots. Said “yeah, totally” when I hadn’t even heard the setup.

But underneath it all, I kept thinking: this used to feel like home. When did that change?

Nobody was unkind. That’s the part that gets me. They were nice. Smiling. Civil. But nothing stuck. Nobody really asked anything. Not really. Just the usual—“how’ve you been?”—that never waits for a real answer.

I don’t want attention. I’m not trying to be the center of anything. I just miss being seen. Like really seen.

It’s weird, how loneliness doesn’t always come from being alone. Sometimes it shows up in a room full of people who used to know you by heart.

And I couldn’t stop wondering:
When did I stop being part of them? When did I become just… someone who shows up?