There are evenings when you don't want to talk. To anyone. You don't want to turn on music, check messengers, answer calls. Just silence. And candles. Their living flickering is like someone's breath in a room where you are alone, but not lonely.

I sometimes arrange a candlelight dinner for myself. Not for someone. Not to create a mood or impress. But simply because I like the way the flame reflects in the glass, how it softly illuminates the shadows on the walls, how hot wine smells of cinnamon and cloves. Because I want to feel how food acquires flavor when you really slow down.

One day, returning late at night, I took out simple pasta, brewed mint tea and placed four thin candles on the table. No reason. Just me, this day and a long pause between thoughts. I remember how unexpectedly delicious it became at that moment. As if everything — even the simplest food — was filled with meaning. Probably because I allowed myself to stop and just be in the moment.

I have thought many times about why people are afraid of loneliness. But I think we are not afraid of it. We are afraid of being alone with ourselves. We are afraid to hear what we are missing. And when you light candles and turn off the light, you hear everything. Even if you do not say a word.

It is not sad. It is delicious. It is like a tangerine in December, a hot bath after the cold, the rustle of pages of a book that you have long wanted to read. It is tenderness without a reason. It is about caring for yourself.

Let there be a dinner for two in my life — with eyes in which you can drown, and laughter that you want to catch. But for now there are such evenings with candles, soft light, the aroma of food and me. And the silence in which I feel real.