Maybe it’s a bad thing, but all my life I’ve found it difficult to relate to anyone. I’ve had a couple of good friends, here and there, but none that I’ve just clicked with. I guess it’s because I rather stay at home on Friday nights and drink my evening tea while I write on napkins. I guess it’s because ever since I was little, I was the shy one who stood alone in line, the one who’d have no partner when the teacher said to pair up. I was the one who was weird because I was silent most the time, the one you’d only talk to in class when you needed a pen. I’m the type of person who knew the answer but didn’t raise their hand, the type of person who was talked down to but bit her tongue every time. I was pushed around, walked on like a doormat, and I never said a word. I was no one’s best friend, only when they needed something of course, then I was their favorite person in the world. Yet I don’t regret a single damn thing, because it’s made me who I am today. I’ve learned to have a low tolerance level with people now. I don’t want to surround myself with someone who laughs at poetry, mocks art, or only finds beauty in the things society deems as beautiful. I’m learning to surround myself with people like me, who see the world in a poetic light. The people who would pick a lonely daisy in a rose garden, the girls who wear caution tape as a necklace, the boys who hide under sweaters and smiles. I’ve also learned that the quietest people have the best minds, and when they open up you can read them like your favorite novel. It’s beautiful.“Isolation is not good for you,” they tell me. Yet in isolation I have discovered what I want and what I need, in isolation I realized that no one I was friends with came to pull me out of it. So I pushed them out of my life.