Loneliness is a quiet, invasive companion. It settles in the morning like dew on the grass and overstays its welcome.

If it was a color, it might be a dull yellow. Not like honey or a sunrise but a sad, ugly citrine. Sour. The kind of yellow you would never put on your wall.

The awful thing about loneliness is that it is inherent to the human condition. Ubiquitous, it’s a malady we must learn to live with. It plagues us, day and night—though especially at night—and we spend each moment quenched and sick, searching for a remedy we’ll never truly find.

Loneliness begins in childhood: sitting alone on the bus, not being chosen during a game, hoping for an invitation to a birthday party. It fuels competition and gives way to a hungry desperation, a desire to be admired, envied, wanted. As we get older we learn to cope with its persistent presence. We know to grab onto those around us before others get the chance. We rendezvous with romantic partners in frantic hope of permanently gluing ourselves to someone else, finally curing our longstanding problem, allowing ourselves to be understood, and seen.

Because that is loneliness’ inverse, the solution that we are in constant, trivial pursuit of: being seen. A photograph allows its subject to be seen, to some degree. Reading gives you a glimmer of insight into the author. Looking into someone’s eyes, too, gives you a piece of their puzzle.

But can this really cure us of our ailment? Can we truly rid ourselves of the bitter pit that burrows into our cores like a leeching parasite? At night, we laugh and shine and watch each other dance, intoxicated with the idea of knowing and being known. But in the mornings we wake in a cold bed, bathed in flat yellow, together—but always utterly alone.