Looking around the park, there are people —
couples, friends, family.
Some are holding hands in the sunlight,
some are laughing as if the world has no wounds,
and some just talk
softly, like the moment will last forever.

I watch as their faces light up,
and I wish —
I wish it was me.
Me holding someone’s hand.
Me having a ride-or-die.
Me having a partner for life.

Looking up into the sky, I ask,
“When is it my turn to be loved?
To not be a burden,
for it not to be one-sided.”

I look back down. I see no one by me.
No fingers lace with mine.
No one is laughing beside me.
No one is with me.
And no one notices.

I am used to being alone,
though I don’t like it,
but I tell people I do,
so they don’t pity me,
so people don’t worry.

I sit down on the bench, unseen,
and alone.