The Room Wasn't That Big, But I Still Felt Miles Away

by Alex Schwartz

We were all in the living room. My mom was on the phone, pacing in loops around the couch like she was wearing down the carpet. My brother was on the floor, controller in hand, yelling at something on the screen. My dad was in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets without taking anything out. And me—I was there, too. Just quieter.

I used to think being alone meant being by yourself. Like, physically. But now I know it can mean sitting in the middle of your family and still feeling like no one sees you. Like you could vanish and it wouldn’t change the noise in the room.

They all had their rhythms. Their shorthand and inside jokes, their bickering that somehow never included me. My mom and brother talked like teammates. My dad and brother argued like it was sport. Sometimes I’d try to say something, join in, but it’d land like a paper airplane in the wind—off course and unnoticed. Or worse, acknowledged with a nod that said, nice try, but we weren’t really looking for another player.

At dinner, they’d talk over each other, the conversation moving like a current I couldn’t swim fast enough to catch. My fork would scrape the plate. I’d say, “School was fine,” even though I wanted to say more. But the silence after I spoke always felt heavier than the words themselves.

There was this one night I remember. We were watching TV, and someone on the show made a dumb joke. Everyone laughed. I laughed too—just a little too late, a little too loud. My brother looked over and smirked. “You good?” he asked, like I was glitching.

I nodded. Of course I was good. Why wouldn’t I be?

Later that night, I sat in bed scrolling through old photos on my phone. Birthday parties, beach trips, even random selfies. We looked like a family. And I guess we were. But photos don’t show silence. Or how it feels when your laugh doesn’t belong. Or how sometimes, home feels like a house you’re visiting.

People talk about chosen families—friends who become your real people. And maybe that’s what I needed. Someone who heard me even when I whispered. Someone who looked up when I entered the room, not just when I left it.

I don’t think my family meant to leave me out. I think they just forgot to make space. Or maybe they thought I already had one.

But I’m still here. Waiting, quietly, for someone to say, “Hey, we saved you a seat.”