Today, I will tell you the story of a man named Waheed (which means Alone in Arabic).

Waheed had long wished for something he deeply desired: to live alone, away from the people around him.
He had once been a sociable person, surrounded by others—living among them, sharing in the mutual game of rights and duties. The only moments he ever spent in solitude were those brief minutes in the restroom.

Then came a moment when fate granted him his wish.
Suddenly, everyone around him disappeared, and he was left alone.

He walked the city alone.
He entered cafés alone.
He would invite himself to a cup of coffee, then pay the bill—
for himself.
Then return home, where he stayed—
alone.

He would wash, clean, and cook his meals—
only to eat them alone.
He listened to his favorite music, watched the films he loved—
alone.
And at night, he would go to bed—alone.
Even in dreams, he saw no one.
All of his dreams, too, were solitary.

His solitude helped him think differently.
It allowed him to see things more clearly, more deeply.
And through those long hours, he was able to make sense of many things happening around him.

Yet, he could not understand some of the bizarre, illogical things he found himself doing.
For example…
He would shut the bedroom door to sleep peacefully—despite living alone.
He would close the bathroom door out of modesty and courtesy—towards no one, because he was, in fact, alone.
Sometimes he would retreat to a quiet corner of the house, though he didn’t know from whom he was hiding—since no one else was there.

And amusingly, after all this,
he would go for a walk in the forest—
just to spend some time alone.

Never had it occurred to him that his wish would be granted with such precision, with such sternness—leaving no one behind.
And when he tried to back out and return, something stopped him.

For the path of solitude is like a one-way road—
you can’t turn around.
And the farther you go,
the harder it is to go back.
Returning to the starting point becomes almost impossible.

Waheed didn’t do all this out of a love for solitude or pleasure in it.
But those who become like him eventually forget the simplest forms of social connection.
They forget how to laugh—because in solitude, even if something amuses them, they rarely express more than a faint smile.
They cannot laugh as people do when surrounded by others.
And if they cry, it is just a few tears down the cheek—no need for sighs or sobs to earn sympathy.
There is no one there to sympathize anyway.

And not only that—
The lonely no longer care about others’ celebrations or holidays.
It’s not bitterness.
They also don’t concern themselves with others’ sorrows or funerals.
It’s not cruelty either.
They’ve simply grown used to living their emotions alone.
What brings them joy doesn’t bring others joy.
What brings them pain doesn’t move others either—
and the reverse is true.

Solitude strips a person of the ability to partake in daily small talk.
It’s not arrogance—
but because solitude peels away all labels and societal roles.
It leaves them only with their true identity—
one unshaped by the social world,
with nothing in common to connect them to others in conversation.

Waheed lived without a family to keep him busy with its affairs.
He didn’t belong to a homeland to discuss national issues with fellow citizens—
his land was wherever his feet stood.
And since no one else could stand where he stood,
no one else shared his land.
No one shared his sense of belonging.

He had no need to visit intellectual clubs or cultural salons.
He had grown used to the size of his own salon—one that fit only one person.

He had no need to enter a temple to pray with worshippers.
He preferred meeting the One and Only—alone.

He could never belong to any political movement.
He annoyed party comrades,
for he often disagreed with even himself.

That doesn’t mean Waheed never saw or interacted with others—
but even in those moments,
he remained alone.
Their presence or absence meant nothing.
Even if he were placed among millions—
Waheed would remain Waheed.
He had grown used to hearing only his voice.
No other voice reached him anymore.

After years of living with solitude,
Waheed could no longer let it go.
He realized that all people eventually leave.
Everyone he had known, knows, or will ever know—
is bound, one day, to disappear or walk away.
Except one:

His own self—
the only one he had truly united with.
His eternal companion,
his truest friend—
the one who never lied to him, nor he to her.
She never abandoned him, no matter how harsh or unkind he became.
She never failed him.
She was with him through joy and sorrow alike.

Waheed no longer saw the logic in giving up that solitude for anyone else.
The days passed, and he made peace with his isolation.
He needed no one.
He could do everything—on his own.

Except for one thing…

That one thing would come to him every night like a daily visitor—
snatching away his calm solitude,
leaving on his lips the bitter taste of need.
It stung.

And in those moments,
Waheed would wish his wish had never come true.
He would pray for it to be undone—instantly.

For each night,
as sleep approached…
Waheed would walk to bed—alone.
Embrace the soft pillows—alone.
And then remember…
that he could not kiss—alone.