How one hates to think of oneself as alone. How one avoids it. It

Host: The train station was almost empty, except for the slow, rhythmic echo of a janitor’s broom and the occasional murmur of the loudspeaker announcing a train that no one seemed to board. Outside, the sky had folded into a soft grey, heavy with the promise of rain. The air carried the smell of iron, coffee, and departure.

Host: Jack sat on a wooden bench, his long coat draped around him like a curtain. His hands were clasped, his posture rigid — the kind of stillness that hides a storm. Jeeny stood a few steps away, near the vending machine, turning a paper cup of coffee slowly between her palms, watching the steam curl upward and vanish into nothing.

Host: The station clock ticked above them, relentless.

Jeeny: “Anne Morrow Lindbergh once said, ‘How one hates to think of oneself as alone. How one avoids it. It seems to imply rejection or unpopularity.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the cavernous silence of the place. The sound of a train horn in the distance — low, mournful — filled the space her words left behind.

Jack: “She was right,” he said finally. “People hate the word ‘alone’ like it’s a curse. They dress it up in excuses — they say they’re busy, independent, focused — but deep down, it’s fear. Fear of being forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe fear of being seen as forgotten.”

Jack: “Same thing. Rejection and invisibility are just different names for the same wound.”

Host: The rain began to fall, tapping gently on the metal roof of the platform. The sound echoed in the hollowness of the space, like a thousand small whispers.

Jeeny: “I don’t think being alone means rejection. I think it means being in the raw — without the world’s distractions, without validation. Maybe that’s why people fear it. Not because of others, but because of what they’ll hear when it’s quiet.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But loneliness isn’t poetry, Jeeny. It’s survival instinct. Humans aren’t built for isolation — it’s written in our DNA. You put someone alone long enough, they break.”

Jeeny: “And yet, some of the greatest souls in history were alone — Thoreau, Emily Dickinson, Nietzsche. They didn’t break. They became.”

Jack: “Or they went mad.”

Jeeny: “Maybe madness is just what solitude looks like to those who can’t face it.”

Host: The light flickered overhead — once, twice — then steadied. The platform seemed suspended between time and memory, the world outside a blur of motion and mist.

Jack: “You really believe solitude can save us?”

Jeeny: “Not save. Clarify.”

Jack: “Clarify what?”

Jeeny: “Who we are without applause.”

Host: He looked up at her then, his grey eyes heavy, the weight of years reflected in them. He’d spent half his life in rooms full of people, yet never felt more unseen.

Jack: “Applause is the only thing that proves you exist.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Existence proves itself. You don’t need an audience for that.”

Jack: “Tell that to every artist who’s died nameless. To every lover left unread.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point — to learn to live without needing to be read by anyone else.”

Host: She took a sip of her coffee, now lukewarm, and sighed. The rain outside had grown heavier, a curtain between the world and whatever waited beyond.

Jeeny: “Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote about solitude like it was a sea — dangerous but necessary. She understood that being alone isn’t rejection; it’s revelation. The trouble is, society has made solitude synonymous with failure.”

Jack: “And maybe it is. Maybe loneliness is what’s left when life has stopped wanting you.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s what’s left when you stop chasing life.”

Host: The wind slipped through the station doors, carrying a faint chill. Jack’s hands tightened, his cigarette unlit between his fingers. He stared at it, as though the act of lighting it would commit him to something irreversible.

Jack: “You talk like solitude is a choice. But what about those who don’t choose it? The ones left behind, the ones the world forgets? Tell me, Jeeny — what beauty do they find in being alone?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they don’t find beauty. Maybe they find truth. And truth is harder, lonelier, and deeper than beauty ever was.”

Host: The train pulled in then — slow, screeching, with sparks of orange light reflecting off wet steel. Neither of them moved. The doors slid open, revealing empty seats and the faint hum of fluorescent bulbs.

Jeeny: “You think solitude means rejection because you measure your worth by how many people stay. But solitude isn’t what happens when others leave — it’s what happens when you stop needing them to stay.”

Jack: “You make it sound like detachment is enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “It’s not detachment. It’s freedom. There’s a difference.”

Host: The train conductor stepped out briefly, his breath visible in the cool air, then disappeared back inside. The doors began to close, then paused, as if waiting for something more than passengers.

Jack: “You’ve always been better at being alone than I am.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve just learned not to fear my own company.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough? To love your own company?”

Jeeny: “It’s the beginning of everything.”

Host: The rain softened now, turning into a thin drizzle that caught the light in a silver haze. Jack finally lit his cigarette, the flame trembling in the draft. He drew deeply, then exhaled — the smoke curling upward, disappearing into the shadows above them.

Jack: “Maybe solitude is easier for those who’ve never been abandoned.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only way to heal from being abandoned.”

Host: The words hung between them — raw, unguarded. Jack’s face twitched, his jaw tightening as if something inside him had shifted, something long buried.

Jeeny: “You think being alone means no one wants you. But sometimes it just means the universe is asking you to finally want yourself.”

Jack: “And if you can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you listen to the silence until you do.”

Host: She turned toward the train, the doors still open, the inside glowing like a promise. For a moment, Jack thought she might step in — vanish into motion, leave him behind with his ghosts. But she didn’t. She turned back instead, her eyes calm, unwavering.

Jeeny: “Being alone isn’t rejection, Jack. It’s rehearsal — for understanding yourself enough to love someone else without losing who you are.”

Host: He didn’t answer. He just nodded slowly, his eyes lowering, the cigarette burning down to a faint red ember between his fingers. The train began to move, pulling away, its sound fading into the distance.

Host: The station returned to stillness. Jeeny set her empty cup on the bench beside him and sat down quietly. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to.

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The clouds began to lift, revealing a pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the wet glass.

Host: And in that quiet silver glow, solitude no longer looked like abandonment — it looked like arrival.

Host: As Anne Morrow Lindbergh once understood, the terror of being alone was only the shadow of its truth: that in solitude, the self is finally seen — not as rejected, but as enough.