On Belonging

 She went on that long-awaited vacation with her friends.

Friends—she hesitated even calling them that.

One was twenty years younger. The other, five or six. Close enough to feel familiar. Far enough to feel the difference.

During the elephant sanctuary tour, the youngest—laughed and said casually, almost absent-mindedly,

“Hey, the staff asked me if your mom had come out of the bathroom.”

He meant it lightly. He meant no harm.

But time slowed anyway.

The words stretched, replayed themselves, settled somewhere heavy. A throwaway joke turned into something else entirely—a quiet confirmation of what she hadn’t voiced: she didn’t belong here. Not quite.

She withdrew after that. Not dramatically. Just subtly. Fewer words. Less presence. Her body folding inward as if trying to take up less space.

At lunch, she tried again. She brought it up, hoping the older of the two would do what friends do—brush it off, defend her, call it stupid.

Instead, he said, almost thoughtfully,

“That could be true if you were married by now.”

Another fact. Another narrowing.

Not married. Not someone’s mother. Not fitting into the version of her they unconsciously expected.

At the airport, the two of them talked easily, animated, as if nothing had happened—or as if she were no longer part of the conversation. She drifted further away, thought by thought, cell by cell.

She was too old.

They had nothing in common.

She was an add-on. A mistake in the grouping.

The next morning, she woke early and left without a word. Breakfast alone. Then weed. Then a decision.

She texted the group chat:

Hey guys, taking a me-day. Feel free to carry on without me.

A thumbs up emoji came as an acknowledgement.

The silence didn’t sting. It relieved her.

She spent the day in the jacuzzi, sunlight rippling across the water. She took pictures—of light, of skin, of herself existing without explanation.

By evening, the loneliness arrived. It always did when the distractions faded. In a strange country, it felt sharper.

She stood in front of the mirror and looked—really looked.

The mirror didn’t lie.

Puffy eyes. Thinning hair. A tired face. Too little savings. Too much history. A life that hadn’t unfolded the way it was supposed to.

And here she was, on vacation, unraveling.

The spiral came quickly. Ruthless. Familiar.

She sat with the ache until it loosened its grip.

She hadn’t ruined anything. She hadn’t lashed out. She hadn’t begged to be included. She had stayed dignified.

These weren’t really her friends anyway. They were people she had met. People she had tried to understand, support, sometimes even fix. Projects, perhaps. Lessons, certainly.

There was a reason she met them.

There was a reason she came here.

And maybe the reason wasn’t companionship, or compassion, or understanding at all.

Some rooms simply aren’t built for you, she told herself. And the world goes on anyway.

She dried her face, picked up her phone, and stepped outside. The night was warm. Music drifted across the town, calling her.

And finally, she learned—

she still belonged to herself.

And tonight, that would have to be enough.