The Elevator Tes
Here’s a fun experiment: get into a crowded elevator. Ten people shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes glued to the floor numbers, pretending the silence doesn’t exist. Nobody speaks. Nobody dares breathe too loudly.
That, my friends, is loneliness in its purest form: being surrounded, but not connected.
It’s a small reminder that you don’t need an empty room to feel lonely. You need people who don’t talk to you.
Parties: Loneliness with Snacks
Parties are marketed as the cure for loneliness. “Go out, meet people, mingle, have fun!” they say.
Reality? You stand in the corner with soggy nachos, trying to look busy while wondering if it’s too early to leave. Everyone else seems to be laughing a little too loudly, dancing a little too enthusiastically, or checking their phones every 30 seconds—just like you.
Parties are often less about fun and more about performance. You’re not drinking juice; you’re drinking courage. You’re not talking; you’re auditioning. You’re not connecting; you’re networking—badly.
And somewhere between the DJ’s shoutouts and someone proudly describing how they bargained 50 rupees off an Amazon deal, you realize: this room full of people feels emptier than your living room at 2 a.m.
The loneliness here isn’t about being excluded—it’s about pretending you’re included.
But here’s the funny thing about loneliness—it doesn’t check your location before showing up. You can be surrounded by 200 people at a sangeet or standing in a room where the DJ is screaming ‘last track’—and still feel like nobody really sees you. That’s when it quietly follows you home. It travels with you into your hostel room, sits next to you in your PG, and even lurks in those late-night WhatsApp groups where everyone is ‘online’ but somehow no one is actually present. Loneliness, unlike party invitations, doesn’t need to be delivered. It just arrives.
Workplaces: Open-Plan Isolation
Ah, the modern office. A paradise of “open communication” where you can hear every cough, every typing sound, every awkward Teams notification. Supposedly designed for collaboration, but somehow the loneliest place you can be.
You’re surrounded by colleagues, yet most conversations revolve around deadlines, Excel sheets, or why the Wi-Fi is down again. Nobody really asks how you’re doing, and if they do, you’re expected to say, “Good, you?” before sprinting back to your desk.
Loneliness at work feels like this: sitting in a buzzing office but realizing no one knows who you are outside your job title. Everyone knows what you do, but very few know who you are.
And that gap—the space between “professional” and “personal”—is where isolation quietly grows.
Think about it: you’re in a meeting where everyone is “aligned” on the new target, but deep down you don’t even feel aligned with yourself. You smile, you nod, you even throw in a “that’s a great idea” to sound engaged. But when the meeting ends, you shut your laptop and realize you don’t have a single person you can actually talk to. Not about the project, but about the stuff that’s eating you up inside.
And then there’s the after-office scene. Colleagues are making dinner plans, weekend getaways, and even starting office cricket teams. You might get the invitation out of politeness, but you know you don’t really belong in that WhatsApp group. I felt that every day. Some thought that I was too rich to talk to them, and others were scared because I was friends with the CEO. And so, I was excluded from all the bike rides in the rain, or maggi cooking in the jungle over an open fire, or those late-night drinks with colleagues.
Workplaces sell us the idea of “family.” HR loves saying it— “we’re one big family here.” But the truth is, it’s not a family. It’s a group of strangers tied together by a salary slip. And in that crowd of familiar faces, loneliness often feels sharper because you’re expected to be part of something you don’t fully connect with.
And the thing about being excluded is, you start pretending it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself you didn’t even want to go on that ride or that you’re too tired for late-night bonding anyway. But deep down, it stings. Because workplaces aren’t just about tasks and targets—they’re about belonging. And when you’re cut off from those “little moments,” the loneliness doesn’t feel professional. It feels personal.
Four Walls, No Calls
The harshest kind of loneliness doesn’t happen in crowds or offices. It happens at home.
Picture this: four people at a dinner table, each staring at a different screen. Technically “together,” but emotionally in separate galaxies.
Or worse—sitting next to someone you love and realizing you haven’t had a real conversation in weeks. You talk about groceries, bills, and logistics. But dreams? Worries? Joy? Silence.
Loneliness at home hurts because home is supposed to be a safe place. If you can’t feel seen there, where do you go?
It’s one thing to feel invisible at a party. It’s another to feel invisible in your own living room.
So, What Do We Do?
You don’t need to delete Instagram, quit your job, or become the life of the party. (Though if you do, please mail me your Wi-Fi password from the mountains.)
What you can do is smaller, less dramatic, and surprisingly powerful:
Text one real friend. Skip the broadcast; go for the one-to-one.
Talk to strangers. The cab driver, the chai vendor, the security guard—they count too.
Admit it. Saying “I feel lonely” to someone is scary, but often, they’re relieved you said it—because they feel the same.
Choose depth over width. A single deep conversation beats 100 shallow ones.
Final Word
Every place can feel lonely sometimes—yes. But every place can also become less lonely with the smallest of shifts. One question was asked. One story shared. One laugh that makes your stomach hurt.
Because in the end, loneliness is not about being alone. It’s about not being known.
And the cure isn’t crowds, feeds, or noise. It’s a connection—messy, imperfect, human connection.