A flower growing alone bends toward the water, where its reflection is the only other living thing that seems to understand its shape.
Field Notes
Loneliness is not always the complete absence of connection. Sometimes it is the strange intimacy of becoming your own witness—of discovering that when no one else is there, your reflection still leans toward you.
Perhaps that is one of the quiet ways we survive: we begin offering ourselves the companionship we once searched for elsewhere. The flower is still alone, but it is not unseen. The water holds its image gently, reminding it that even in solitude, something remains beside us—the self that endured, the self that stayed.