WHEN I was 12, my world grew quiet.

The friends I once laughed with began to drift away.

There was no dramatic ending. Just pauses in conversation that lasted too long, inside jokes I no longer understood, and empty chairs where I used to sit.

One by one, they found new people. And I found myself alone.

During recess, I sat on the stairs behind the canteen. Not because I liked the view, but because it was far enough to avoid being noticed.

I brought a book with me each day. I wasn’t reading – I was hiding behind the pages, pretending I was too busy to care.

But I did care.

At that age, being alone didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like something was wrong with me.

I started to wonder if I had become the kind of person no one wanted to be around. Maybe I was too quiet, too much of something or not enough of everything.

It’s easy to believe that solitude means rejection. That sitting alone must mean you’re unloved. But now I know that isn’t always true.

There’s a difference between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness is what I felt back then – the ache of being left out, the silence that echoed louder than laughter.

Solitude, on the other hand, is something I’ve grown into. It’s the quiet I choose now when I need to think, reflect or breathe without pressure.

Solitude became a space where I met myself again, not through other people’s eyes, but through my own.

That said, being alone isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes, it hurts. We are human. We long to be seen, to be invited, to feel like we matter.

And when those needs go unmet, it’s natural to question ourselves. But pain isn’t a sign that we’re broken. It’s part of being alive.

Over time, I’ve learnt to listen to the difference between needing rest and needing connection. Some days, I crave quiet. Other days, I crave closeness. Both are valid.

What matters is recognising what you need – and not being ashamed of either.

If you’re someone who’s navigating this balance, here’s what I found useful: You can be alone and still be whole.

You don’t need a crowded table to prove your worth. At the same time, don’t let the walls you build to protect yourself become the ones that keep others out.

If the silence becomes heavy, speak up. Reach out. It takes strength to be alone – and even more to say, “I need someone.”

There are also times when it’s wiser not to go solo. Some paths aren’t meant to be walked alone – like when your emotions feel too heavy to carry, or when your safety depends on someone being beside you.

Strength isn’t about never needing others. It’s about knowing when you do.

To the teens reading this who feel like no one sees them, I do. I’ve been there. Sitting quietly with a book, waiting for someone to notice.

And even if no one did, I learnt to see myself. Eventually, I found people who saw me too.

So keep going. You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re becoming.

And maybe one day, you’ll be the one who notices someone sitting alone – and you’ll understand just how much that moment can mean.

Isabel, 14, a student in Johor, is a participant of the BRATs Young Journalist Programme run by The Star’s Newspaper-in-Education (Star-NiE) team. For updates on the BRATs programme, go to facebook.com/niebrats.