Lonely

By Asche Keegan

I know a girl who knows everybody.

It’s only freshman year, but somehow she knows 20% of the people we walk past by face, 70% of the people by name, and can tell me a miniature fact about at least 40%.

 “That’s Alexis: she likes cats and is a music major.”

Her boundless energy, while difficult to follow, gives her an endless platform through which she continues to introduce herself to people. “Hi, I’m Aire! I haven’t seen you around before, and I was just wondering what dorm you live in?”

When I remark on her connectedness, she shrugs it off. “It’s a small campus.” There are 10,000 people here at least, and somehow she knows approximately 9,000 of them in freshman year. “Besides, all you really have to do is memorize their names and a fact about them. It makes them feel important to you, and they’ll be more likely to remember your name as well,” she confides to me.

She’s already off, chatting with a friend she has not seen in ages, leaving me wondering how many people she has entrusted this information to.

She talks incessantly. Every word out of her mouth is designed to create a following around herself, a way to constantly be the center of attention. “It’s something I’m working on—asking others more questions,” she laughs. She’s been the same the entire time I’ve known her. I don’t think it’s working very well.

When she leaves a conversation, they chatter quietly amongst themselves, stealing glances in her direction. “They’re talking about you,” I warn her.

“Oh, were they? I had no idea,” she says. “Let them talk. I really don’t care.” Yet, a minute later I catch her looking over her shoulder, harrowed eyes scanning the room for the conversations she has left.

I feel like she spends so many words to say nothing, and she uses traumatic life experiences as conversation filler when she has nothing else to talk about. It doesn’t seem like it would help draw people closer together, but somehow, it works. She seems well-liked.

Days pass, and I see less and less of her. I’ll catch glimpses occasionally, but her hood is pulled low over her head, and she doesn’t answer when I call after her. I feel momentary sadness, then realize that for someone with so many friends, it seems obvious that she would find someone more entertaining than me.

The next few days are lonely, but considerably more peaceful.  

~

Yet, walking to the bathroom at 3am one night, I see her crouched and crying by herself in a dark study lounge. She clutches the window frame as if it is all that she has left, and I approach cautiously. “Are you okay?” I ask her, sinking beside her.  

She sniffles, and I can see her backbone straighten and her shoulders rise for a second. However, she deflates again, unable to muster the energy to maintain an illusion of bravery. “I feel so alone,” she whispers.

I gape, astounded. “But you know everybody! You’re well-liked. You’re friends with so many people! You’re friends with me.”

She looks up, and though her eyes shine with tears, she smiles tightly and blinks them away. Taking my cool hand in her warm one, she holds it for a second, looking back out the window. “Yes, you’re my friend,” she says, and when she turns back, I examine her eyes for sincerity. For once, though, I think she truly means it, just for me and no one else.

The peace holds for a moment and together we watch the moonlight. “The others? They’re a failsafe,” she says.

“How so?”

She sniffles again. “When you know 9,000 people, your reputation can’t be destroyed by 6.” I steal another glance at her, and her eyes glimmer again.

“But none of them are truly your friends,” I say, suddenly understanding.

We sit in silence for several more minutes before she clears her throat, wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve and takes her hand back from mine. “Thank you,” she says.

I know why, but I sense she wants me to ask so she can say it out loud. “For what?”

“For being my friend.”

A star peeks through the city smog, and we both smile to see it.

~

The next day, I see her in the hall, laughing and chatting with a large group of people, talking to each of them by name.

“How do you know everybody?” someone asks her. She laughs.

“More trouble than it was probably worth. Of course, y’all are worth it, but I’m thinking that I should maybe start focusing on being really good friends with just one or two people. At least until the semester is over. There’s nothing quite as lonely as knowing everyone.”