Am I unlikable if I’m not a social butterfly?
There is a certain solace in embracing introversion, a quiet retreat into oneself where solitude feels like a well-worn coat. Yet, beneath this comfort lies an uneasy conflict: moments when I feel undeserving of human connection as if the world is an intricate dance to which I’ve never learned the steps. After each social gathering, I am left hollow — sad, depleted, and often, a mere shell of myself. No amount of alcohol can dull the nagging sensation that I am out of place, an outsider trying to force my way into a world that does not fit.
I fear it may always be this way.
Right now, I am sitting on a cold bench at the train station, wrestling with the tears that threaten to spill and distort my vision. I promised myself I would venture beyond my comfort zone, but there are times when I think I would be better off simply staying at home, letting myself decay like the lifeless corpse I feel I am becoming.
Every attempt at socializing feels like a desperate grasp at normalcy. I overcompensate for my lack of ease, my nervousness turning me into someone I barely recognise — too loud, overly eager, my voice a little too high-pitched, my laughter too forced. Instead of being reasonably sociable, I cross the line into being overwhelming, an unwelcome presence that those around me might wish to escape. I sense their discomfort, their sidelong glances, and I know I’ve failed again.
It feels like standing on the edge of a train platform, always choosing one side or the other, never daring to stand in the middle of the tracks for fear of being struck. The middle ground — the place where true connection might be found — is difficult, a risk I am too afraid to take. So I remain on the periphery, either too far or too close, never just right.
I would like to know if I am condemned to live life this way, an eternal misfit in a world that craves charisma and ease. I’ll keep searching for a balance, hoping to find a moment of peace in the chaos of it all, a way to feel worthy of connection without losing myself in the process.
And so, I wait for the next train, not knowing where it will take me, but trusting that maybe, somewhere along the way, I’ll find a place where I can simply be — without the need to apologise for it.
The tears won tonight, blurring my vision for the rest of the train ride.
