Alone, Not Lonely
[Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual beings, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
This is a light-hearted take on someone turning fifty, told with dry wit and quiet confidence. It’s a reminder that solitude can be stylish—and that living life on your own terms is something worth celebrating.
I caught Tulio staring at our digital wall clock at midnight, the date quietly flipping over to a new one.
“Happy five-oh, old timer,” I said out loud, standing at the toilet doorway with a mug in one hand and my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth like a reluctant cigarette.
Tulio blinked at me as if he'd forgotten I existed. “Thanks, Glenn. Don’t call me that.”
“Fifty’s not a curse, mate. It’s half a century of achievements, wisdom, and not getting caught for your worst decisions.”
He gave me a look. The one that says, “Save it.”
“Seriously though, you sure you don't want to do something to celebrate this weekend? My treat. We’ll find somewhere that doesn’t play music too loud.”
Tulio rubbed his eyes and leaned back. “We can. Doesn’t have to be celebrating anything though. Just.. catching up. We’ve both been busy.”
I grimaced. “Do I sense someone reluctant to enter the five series? Trump and Biden are in their 80s.”
He turned back to his screen. “Presentation tomorrow.”
“You mean presentation this morning. It’s already past midnight.” Tulio waved me off with one hand. I took the hint and retreated into the toilet, muttering, “Good night, grumpasaurus.”
I've got a long day ahead too. Big meeting with that Australian client — guy thinks Malaysians run on Vegemite and spreadsheets. I was going to bed early.
From my bedroom later, I could still hear the quiet clacking of his keyboard. In our apartment, he is always in his digital world, if not reading. Mostly. I wasn't surprised. Tulio has always been the type to over-prepare for meetings and under-prepare for birthdays. I’d witnessed two, and a third one had just arrived.
We've been housemates for more than three years now. Two single men sharing a pleasant Mont Kiara condo — an over-glorified apartment term — with more plants than people, and an unspoken agreement to give each other space unless food, tennis, or existential crises are involved. I’d never call us best friends, but we know each other well enough. I know, for instance, that he sometimes needs reminding that work isn’t the only thing ticking on the clock.
His schedule ran on them — meetings, tennis games, even his visits to his parents every Tuesday evening without fail. Almost. Unless, of course, something “more important” came up. Which, to be fair, almost never did.
And he knows I sometimes talk too much.
People always ask what it’s like living with someone nearly fifteen years older. The truth? Tulio never imposes, never pries, and somehow manages to exist with the quiet efficiency of a well-oiled espresso machine. Sometimes I wondered if he came pre-installed with a silencer, like a firearm.
But he wasn’t cold. Just… contained.
The next morning, he was gone before I came out for breakfast. His coffee mug was rinsed and left upside down on the drying rack, like a small offering to the gods of corporate success. His necktie was missing from its usual hook by the mirror — evidence that he’d suited up for a big one.
I imagined him breezing into the office all composed and efficient, dazzling some boardroom with charts and strategies. And then, probably, zoning out the moment some intern asked if he had big plans for the weekend.
He’d brush it off. Smile politely. Maybe even say, “Just a quiet dinner.” Which was Tulio-code for “I’ll be microwaving something while watching Bloomberg with the subtitles on.”
But that’s the thing. He genuinely liked it. The solitude. The order. Being alone didn’t bother him — in fact, I think he preferred it. There was a strange joy he took in never having to explain his choices to anyone. He told me once that the last time he ever had to answer to someone was when his mum scolded him for not doing the dishes — just before he turned 21.
It was close to 9:30 when I got home that evening, after a marathon of meetings and a dinner that ran longer than it should’ve. The apartment was dark, quiet — Tulio wasn’t back yet. Not unusual, but part of me wondered if he’d finally caved to a birthday dinner with someone.
Five minutes later, the front door creaked open, and I heard the familiar jangle of keys. He stepped in, loosened his tie, and said, “I saw you walking out when I was driving into the carpark just now.”
I nodded, dropping my bag by the shoe rack. “Yeah, long day. Hope yours went alright.”
Tulio kicked off his shoes, calm as ever. “It went well. And I had time to go over to my parents after work. Missed last evening’s date with them.”
I smirked, opening the fridge. “Ah, celebrating your fiftieth with Mum and Dad. That’s cute.”
He laughed, the kind of laugh that said he didn’t mind the tease — and maybe, just maybe, that it had been a better birthday than he’d expected.
“I reckon the midnight oil you burned last night was worth it,” I said from the sofa later on, not looking up from the muted TV having a commercial break. TV ads can be interesting when they are not the cliché stuff.
“The meeting went smooth,” he said, collapsing into the armchair diagonally from me. “Only one person tried to hijack it.”
“Just one? You’re not slipping.”
He grunted. That meant “thanks” in Tulio-speak.
“I ran into Amelia at the office pantry,” he added after a moment. “She asked if I was doing anything exciting this weekend.”
I looked up. “I thought you and I already have a date with drinking? Don't tell me a bunch of twenty-somethings takes priority now.”
He gave me that look again.
“Okay, okay. So what did you say?”
“Quiet lunch this weekend. Just us.”
I nodded. That meant our evening of drinks was still on.
Amelia, as I’ve gathered from our occasional chats when she drops by to discuss work stuff, is a live wire. Late twenties, endlessly social, and genuinely fond of Tulio’s mind — which, frankly, I find both impressive and suspicious. Not that he notices. His idea of romance these days is correctly formatting PowerPoint charts.
That was when I caught him still in his armchair swiping aimlessly through a dating app. Not even reading the profiles, just flicking like he was scrolling through a menu he had no appetite for.
“Feeling lonely at 50, huh?”
He didn’t look up. “You know, I never feel lonely, even when I am alone. But here, everyone on this app seems lonely, looking for love or trouble.”
“No one's just looking for a decent conversation and a game of mixed doubles anymore?” I teased.
“Apparently not, Glenn. And some of these AI generated images of the pretty and handsome are an instant giveaway of fake faces. I hate having to babysit an adult lacking in self-confidence.”
“What are you looking for then?" I asked.
“Someone who won’t want brunch selfies or ask me to explain my childhood, where I live, and what I do for a living.”
“Charming,” I muttered. “So basically… physical, nothing emotional.”
“Exactly,” he said, unapologetic. “I enjoy people. But I don’t need them.”
“Amelia’s pretty,” I brought up the subject again.
“She’s sharp,” he corrected. “And ambitious.”
“But pretty too.”
He shrugged. “She’s ... full of Instagram and optimism. I’m not a project.”
“You know,” I said, “I once dated someone who said I was ‘emotionally low-maintenance.’ I thought it was a compliment.”
Tulio raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And then she ghosted me because I didn’t make enough drama.”
He let out a quiet chuckle. Progress.
For him, there was Blair, he once said of his six-year live-in companion.
“What happened?” I had asked.
“Nothing dramatic. Just… divergence.”
That was Tulio’s way of saying they drifted apart.
Still, Blair sent him a birthday card every year. Did that for the past two years. I’d seen them arrive — neat little envelopes with carefully penned addresses.
“Still sending cards?” I had said when I first picked it up from our mailbox. “Man. Who does that anymore?”
“Blair,” Tulio said.
“Maybe flowers next year?” I suggested. “Though I still don’t think your heart will go back.”
He smiled, amused. The flowers never came. It was still a card the second time around.
This year was different. There was no card from Blair.
“I don’t miss them. Not at all,” Tulio said.
And I believed Tulio.
“I get it,” I continued. “After Blair, you kind of put the shutters down. But maybe there’s a middle ground between romantic melodrama and hermit celibacy.”
He sighed, leaned his head back. “Blair wanted a lot more than I could provide. I just wanted to breathe.”
He had told me before that Blair wanted a more anchored life — home, kids, income tax deductions. Tulio, on the other hand, enjoyed his own orbit. Loved his routines. Loved the way he could come home and not talk if he didn’t feel like it. No emotional check-ins. No compromise dinners. Just.. being.
“So, there’s not going to be a Tulio Junior?”
“Not at my age. I cannot imagine running after a toddler a couple of years from now. Neither do I want to worry about funding someone else's tertiary education when I am retired. That's not my style.”
“Find someone young then. Someone with a good job, a steady income who can …”
“Nah.” He interrupted. It was a cue. Nothing more on that subject needed to be discussed.
Thursday came. As planned, we hit the tennis court. Our fortnightly ritual. Almost. Nothing like a few aggressive serves to sweat it out. And Tulio always reminding me that he’s not quite over the hill yet. Tulio was in form that day — less distracted. He returned two of my serves with a precision I hadn’t seen in weeks.
“Still moving like a thirty-year-old,” I said between points.
“Trying to keep the engine running,” he puffed.
“You sure that engine doesn’t need some company under the hood?”
“Don’t start again.”
“I’m just saying. Even machines need lubrication.”
He rolled his eyes so hard, I thought they’d get stuck.
Afterward, on our drive home, I apologized. I should stop teasing him about turning 50.
Tulio laughed. “Yes, you should. And to think that Zariff is still trying to recruit me into his weekly mahjong game.”
Zariff is one of our neighbours on the same floor. A Malay Muslim retiree who plays mahjong only for fun, and as long as it doesn’t involve monetary exchanges.
“Because you impress him. He told me once, ‘Tulio is like an expensive bonsai tree. Looks great, but needs a bit of tending before he gets too brittle.’”
“That’s oddly poetic. Sounds like some English literature teacher.”
“He was an IT professional, Tulio.”
“I know. Last week, I told him Sudoku is more mind-engaging. Somewhat like the data that he used to handle in his work. Only to hear him say, data is more than just numbers, young man.”
I laughed. I could see his expression soften. A small crack in the cool exterior.
Friday evening came. From our balcony, the night skyline was doing its usual glittering dance, but something about the way he looked at it told me it wasn’t just lights he was seeing. What, I don’t know.
I won’t mention birthdays again for the remaining part of this week. The weekend’s drinks date would be like one of those regular meetups. Not celebrating anything, just as he had wished.
I was still lazing on the sofa when I heard him say, just above a whisper, “Let’s do dinner Sunday. You, me. Maybe Zariff. Halal stuff. Bangsar maybe.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I saw a cake in the fridge.”
I blushed. “I’m sorry. I had ordered it on Monday, for our weekend drinks date. Too late to cancel the order when you said no celebration. Shall I bring it to dinner on Sunday?”
“Hell, no. Please don’t. Zariff needn’t know about the cake.”
“Oh?” So, dinner wasn’t going to be a birthday do.
“No celebration. Let’s have the cake now. I’m a bit hungry. You game?”
And just like that, Tulio turned fifty. Not with a bang, not with a breakdown — just with a small, quiet shift. A little less solitude, a little more company. A good start, I’d say.
“What would your fiftieth birthday be like?” he asked between bites.
“I have the faintest idea. I still have 15 years to get there. Who can tell what the future holds? Some people never get to 50. If I do, maybe I won’t be alone. But I may be lonely then.”
“You sound confused. Both being alone and loneliness are a matter of choice, not of consequence.”
Easy for you to say, old man.
That’s Tulio. He didn’t mind company, just not too close. Not too needy. The kind of person who may crave the occasional physical closeness but recoil at emotional expectation. If he was hungry, he’d cook. If he was tired, he’d sleep. And if he wanted intimacy — well, maybe he’d text someone. Or maybe just go to bed early and dream it up.
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