The Two Facets of Solitude

Charlotte Whitfield stood before the bathroom mirror, biting the lower lip. Her fingers nervously tucked a stray lock of hair back into a sleek bun, as if the perfect knot held the fate of the evening.

Thirtyfive. The age that advertisers celebrate as the prime of life and diarykeepers label the crisis. A thriving career in a London advertising agency, a cosy flat in Shoreditch, mates who could discuss anything from Brexit to the latest SPF50 sunscreen.

But when the front door clicked shut and the phone fell silent, the quiet swelled like a tide, louder than the clamor of traffic outside.

Another date, she sighed, eyeing the reflected silhouette.

The dress was elegant, hugging without shouting. Light makeup just enough to accentuate the eyes without looking like shed tried too hard. Heels were tall, but not so towering as to seem desperate. Every detail was thought through, as if she were heading to an exam where the panel would grade her on poise, not personality.

She knew exactly what she wanted. Not merely a relationship, but a real love that seeped into the hidden corners of the soul, where words were unnecessary and a single glance or touch said everything. Yet every time a new gentleman slid into a café or restaurant opposite her, a sardonic inner voice piped up:

What if he turns out like the last one?

The last one. The bloke shed almost convinced was the one. Their romance cracked on the everyday his unwillingness to speak about feelings, her attempts to fix, understand, adjust. Shed devoured dozens of psychology books, filled notebooks with training notes, dissected each mistake like a stubborn algebra problem. The more she understood, the scarier it became to open up again.

Am I asking for too much? she whispered, glancing at her phone screen.

A new message pinged. The same interesting gentleman from a dating site witty, clever, no glaring red flags. She smiled at his lines, but her mouth instantly tightened into a thin line.

And if he disappoints?

And the void returned: night, silence, mirror. A question still without an answer.

Beatrice Hartley claimed a corner of her favourite café, where overstuffed sofas seemed to mould around her and the scent of freshly ground coffee mingled with vanilla. She flipped through a new novel, fingers occasionally pausing on a favourite line, leaving barelythere creases on the pages.

Fortytwo. The number on her passport, nothing more. Inside, a sea of energy the exhilarating feeling that the best adventures were still ahead.

Bea, still solo? a familiar voice called, pulling her from the book. Her friend Molly, hair a little tousled after a long day at the law firm, was already flagging down the waitress for her habitual caramel latte.

Beatrice set the book down, exposing a cover splashed with abstract colours. Yeah, she replied, her smile as calm as a placid lake on a windless day. But Im not lonely.

She caught the surprised glances of strangers, of acquaintances, of anyone who assumed a striking, intelligent woman must be paired up. Shed stopped explaining. Love, shed discovered, wasnt waiting for a prince; it lived in the morning coffee on her balcony, spontaneous trips to Brighton, projects at work that lit her eyes. It lived in friends who knew her true self, without masks.

That handsome chap from last week? Molly teased, waving a dessert spoon. The one who invited you to a jazz night? You love jazz, dont you?

Cute, Beatrice laughed, and there was no tension in that laugh. But Im not ready to mould myself to anyones expectations. She paused, watching the waitress place a frothy cup before Molly. If he wants to be around, let him chase. As for me her fingers returned to the right page, Im already where Im headed.

Loneliness? The word didnt fit. It was freedom light as a summer breeze, sturdy as the roots of an ancient oak. Freedom to choose tomorrows direction, to wake and fall asleep in harmony with herself. Freedom simply to be.

Later that evening, Charlotte slipped off her heels, let the evening dress, still scented with the restaurants perfume, hang oddly on her. The date had gone well intelligent conversation, exquisite food. When he tried to take her hand, something tightened inside. Not fear, just a quiet realization. Another charming, sensible man, and that familiar icy void in her chest.

She moved to the window, pressed her palm to the cold glass. London glittered below, life bustling, people meeting and parting. Inside her pristine flat, surrounded by pricey décor, she felt adrift.

Why is this so hard? she murmured to her reflection, the question hanging in the air like a missed train.

At the same time, on the opposite side of the city, Beatrice reclined in a wicker chair on her eleventhfloor balcony. In one hand a glass of red wine, in the other a cigarette she allowed herself just once a month. The night breeze teased her loose hair while a sultry jazz tune floated from the speakers.

She closed her eyes, letting the music wrap around her. No thoughts of failed dates or unfulfilled fantasies. Only the present the sharp taste of wine on her lips, the cool night air, distant city lights glittering like scattered gems.

Beatrice didnt wait for a prince. Shed long since learned that no fairytale hero could make her happier than she could herself. Every evening, every sunrise, every minute belonged to her alone. And in that there was no loneliness just the intoxicating liberty of being herself.

She raised her glass in a silent toast to herself, to the night, to the remarkable life shed built. A queen needs no throne her kingdom was wherever she felt content. Tonight it was an elevenstorey balcony, a fine glass of wine, and stars bright enough to outshine any city light.

Two women. Two universes.
Charlotte and Beatrice lived in the same city, breathed the same London air, yet inhabited completely different realities.

Charlotte moved through life with an outstretched hand emptiness resting in her palm, desperate to be filled. Each date, each new acquaintance was a quest for someone who could finally give her what she felt she lacked: a sense of being needed, warmth, belonging. She believed love was an external force, something to be delivered from outside to complete her. The harder she chased, the larger the void grew inside.

Beatrice walked with arms wide open not because she awaited someone to fill them, but because her world was already brimming. Brimming with experiences, freedom, quiet joy in simple things. She didnt search for love; she radiated it. Hence people were drawn to her, because being near her felt easy. She didnt expect a prince, didnt build airy castles she simply lived. In her life there was room for solitude, meetings, partings, and fresh roads.

Perhaps their paths will cross someday. Perhaps Charlotte will realise the emptiness wasnt from a lack of love but from not knowing how to love herself. Perhaps Beatrice will meet someone who wont ask her to change, but will simply walk beside her, preserving her harmony. Or perhaps not.

But right now their stories are two different answers to the same question.

Love doesnt come to those who hunt it. It arrives for those who already live with an open heart not because they wait, but because they can give.

And the real lesson emerges: it isnt about finding someone to fill your void, but learning to be whole on your own. Only then does love stop being a rescue mission and become simply happiness.