My mind is a quiet house at the edge of town—lonely, perhaps, but not unloved. The walls are lined with fading photographs and memories framed in soft gold, like old friends who never left but rarely speak. It’s the kind of place people forget to check in on, assuming I’m always home, always fine.

But sometimes, it gets so quiet inside that I have to step out—just to knock on my own front door. I pretend I’m a guest, arriving with no expectations, just a need to be let in. I ring the bell, wait a moment, and greet myself like someone I haven’t seen in years.

I make coffee for one. I sit at the kitchen table and talk to myself—not out of madness, but out of care. The conversation is gentle, familiar. I ask how I’ve been, and I answer honestly. There’s no judgment here, only warmth.

Most days, I’m my only visitor. And truth be told, it suits me just fine.

In this house of thought and memory, I’ve learned that solitude isn’t emptiness—it’s presence. I am, in the deepest sense, my own best company. And that, I’ve come to realize, is a kind of love that never leaves.

©️ Beatriz Esmer