Loneliness had been at her side for as long as she could remember. Soledad Estrada felt Loneliness in the coldness of a room, at the lunch table where she sat alone, and through the TV—the outcast, the reject, the one being laughed at—that was her. She saw Loneliness in her own face in the mirror and in the shadows of the world outside. Soledad's family loved her—she knew that—but words didn't seem to matter when Loneliness is the one who squeezes your hand as you swallow your tears in silence in any room. Loneliness was the invisible twin nobody saw but her.

   She found it difficult to make friends with other kids her age—at home, at school, at anyone's house, really. If others didn't make fun of her for her glasses, it was her dark skin and black hair, being fat, too smart, too shy, too weird, a goody two-shoes, the teacher's pet, and whatever else they could come up with. It didn't matter if Soledad did everything right or if things were out of her control, a fault with her was always found for it. Her name was too foreign and everyone mispronounced it, even some of the teachers. The children chanted her name in a way that made her feel ashamed. They taunted her that she would never be pretty enough to be a girl and would forever be unlovable.

   Even in the brief respites of isolation, in the few sleepovers and activities she was invited to in primary school, she was the token joke: the party piñata. If there was a trick to be played, it was always on her. If she won a game, she must be cheating. Didn't she know she was only invited to be the loser they could laugh at?

   Soledad remembered one incident with particular clarity: she had been invited over to one girl's home after school, Ellie's house. Ellie lived in a nicer neighborhood surrounded by golden California hills, where the older houses were bigger with tile roofs, the yards green and not half dirt like hers, the streets quieter and broad, and it seemed as if generations of families all knew each other. It was late afternoon, sunny, but with a crisp and slightly chilly autumn air. Ellie suggested they play doctor in the backyard, and the girls went outside. Tall Italian Cypress trees lined the enclosing white adobe walls, covering much of the yard in shade, including where a cold, stone bench stood.

   Ellie told Soledad to lie down on the bench. She instructed Soledad to close her eyes and wait there, saying she'd be right back. Soledad waited and waited. She continued waiting, even as she could feel the sun was setting, even as it had long since grown dark and cold. Even then, Ellie still had not returned.

   How long had she lain on the bench as a fool? Thirty minutes? An hour? Two? Soledad shivered. She sat up and opened her eyes. The lights were on now inside the house, and the warm orange light spilled out into the darkness of the back patio, but its arms were not long enough to reach her on the bench. Soledad sat in darkness as a shadow. Watching through the glass slider, she could see Ellie bathed in that warm light while sitting at the white marble and pristine kitchen island. Ellie was eating slowly, as if savoring every minute where Soledad had simply ceased to exist—if she had ever existed at all. 

   When Soledad entered, Ellie pretended as if nothing had happened. There was absolute silence, as if Soledad were an invisible ghost. For Soledad, it was an early life lesson about the extremes even children will take to be cruel—smashing their shoe in someone else's face for no other reason than to feel better about themselves. Would Ellie have ever come back out if Soledad had stayed out there, waiting? Not wanting to ask a question whose answer would only add salt to her wounded heart, Soledad stayed silent with her shame and walked home.

   For Soledad, friendship remained largely elusive even during and after her high school years, with only occasional glimpses of it. If she were to write her own version of T. S. Eliot for those years, "The Love Song of S. Petra Estrada", she'd write, "People come and go, like a pop-star manifesto." Soledad found herself spending her free time writing because only on the lined sheets of 8 1/2 by 11 pages was there a safe space to express herself without fear or judgment. She filled notebooks with letters and odes to Loneliness. As she kept writing, she felt less lonely—even if she were only writing to and for herself. 

   She found her voice as she continued to write, and her confidence grew. As she graduated from college-ruled notepads to PCs, she began to connect with others online through her writing. She shared what she wrote. She posted publicly. She found friends—some close by while others were oceans away. Over the next decade or so, Soledad came to know others deeply through their writing, and these friends came to know her through hers. Through those exchanges of letters, she found friendship, love, and inspiration. With writing came a freedom that brought her comfort, joy, and hope. 

   There were many bright and happy days that followed, shared with these few close friends. She felt seen, heard, and, most importantly, truly understood as herself and not as the image others had projected onto her for much of her life. Soledad could be who she was, who she wanted to be, and still be both loved and accepted. Her tune revised had become: "People come and go, like careers in Sacramento."

   So when her oldest friend suddenly passed away, Soledad was devastated by a loss which felt both incalculable and impossible to bear. It felt as if her heart would burst and the well of tears remain forever bottomless. As she cycled through the stages of grief, she felt the familiar hand squeeze that she hadn't felt in decades. It was a squeeze so strong, she felt it in her heart. Then Soledad did what she had never done before: she embraced Loneliness—because even, and especially then, she realized, Loneliness needed a friend too.