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Being alone and loneliness are two different things. The first one means being somewhere you have zero company with. The latter means feeling alone in your thoughts and feeling that you have no one to rely on. Being in both states can definitely alter your rationality. Let’s see Exhibit A: Yoon Seoyeon.
At twenty-two, Yoon Seoyeon had mastered the art of appearing composed. As a BS Psychology major and the ever-reliable student council secretary, she color-coded her planners, responded to emails within minutes, and scheduled her breakdowns—if any—between 9:00 and 9:15 p.m., preferably with chamomile tea. She was stubborn in arguments, disciplined in routines, and intelligent enough to read people before they finished their sentences.
Yet none of that helped when the council room lights switched off and the hallway on the fourth floor grew quiet.
Her organization shared that floor with several others. Every night, she’d hear laughter spilling out of the chemistry org room—“The Chemistry Love,” as their neon banner proudly declared. Seoyeon found the name ridiculous. Love and chemistry were two different disciplines.
Still, sometimes she lingered when she heard a familiar voice among the laughter—low, warm, slightly clumsy when excited.
Yoon Yooyeon.
A year older. BS Chemistry. Passionate about reactions, both in test tubes and in people. Self-conscious in a way that made her overthink every text she sent. Smart enough to intimidate most, but gentle enough that she never did it on purpose.
They weren’t close. Just acquaintances orbiting the same academic galaxy. Nods in the hallway. The occasional shared elevator ride. Once, Yooyeon had held the door open when Seoyeon’s hands were full of council documents.
“Careful,” Yooyeon had said, smiling. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the university.”
Seoyeon had replied, “Someone has to.”
She hadn’t missed the way Yooyeon’s smile lingered.
Loneliness makes you irrational.
That was the only explanation Seoyeon had when she downloaded a dating app at 1:47 a.m. on a Thursday.
She didn’t craft a thoughtful bio. She uploaded three decent photos—one from a council event, one candid her friend insisted she post, and one professionally taken headshot.
Then she started swiping.
Left. Right. Right. Left. It didn’t matter. Faces blurred into a parade of curated smiles and recycled captions. She swiped right on nearly everyone by the end, her thumb moving faster than her discernment.
It was impulsive. Out of character.
By morning, her phone was flooded with matches.
And messages.
“Hey :)”
“You’re really pretty.”
“Psych major? So you’re analyzing me already huh?”
“If you were a neuron, you’d be my favorite connection.”
Seoyeon rolled her eyes. Predictable. Surface-level. Boring.
Then one notification made her pause.
Yooyeon: “As a chemistry major, I’m legally obligated to ask—are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re Cu-Te. I’m sorry. I panicked.”
Seoyeon blinked.
She read it again.
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
Yooyeon?
Her Yooyeon-from-the-fourth-floor?
She clicked the profile. It was undeniably her—lab coat photo, messy hair, bio that read: “I promise I’m cooler than my org’s name.”
Seoyeon stared at the ceiling.
Of all people.
She typed back before she could overthink it.
Seoyeon: “That was terrible.”
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Yooyeon: “I know. I’ve had a crush on you for a year and that’s what I led with.”
Seoyeon’s breath hitched.
She told herself it was a joke.
Their first date was awkward.
They met at a campus café neither of them frequented. Yooyeon arrived ten minutes early, rehearsing casual greetings in her head. Seoyeon arrived exactly on time, posture straight, expression neutral.
“Hi,” Yooyeon said, nearly knocking over her own drink.
“Hi,” Seoyeon replied, analyzing the micro-tremors in Yooyeon’s hands.
The conversation stumbled. Seoyeon defaulted to interview-mode, asking structured questions. Yooyeon over-explained answers, nervous laughter spilling between sentences.
They both went home thinking it had gone badly.
But neither unmatched.
The second date was worse.
They tried bowling. Yooyeon missed pins spectacularly. Seoyeon’s competitive streak surfaced, and she focused more on winning than on the girl beside her.
“Do you even want to be here?” Yooyeon asked softly at one point.
Seoyeon frowned. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Seoyeon didn’t respond.
Feelings were imprecise. She preferred clarity.
By the third date, something shifted.
They studied together on the fourth floor, doors open between their org rooms. Yooyeon explained a reaction mechanism, eyes bright with passion. Seoyeon watched her hands move animatedly, the way she bit her lip when thinking.
“You’re staring,” Yooyeon teased.
“I’m observing,” Seoyeon corrected.
“Psych major,” Yooyeon murmured fondly.
Seoyeon felt something unfamiliar bloom in her chest.
She ignored it.
Weeks passed.
They fell into a rhythm—late-night walks, shared snacks, quiet companionship. Seoyeon began saving memes specifically for Yooyeon. She lingered longer by the chemistry org room. She noticed when Yooyeon changed her perfume.
She was starting to like her.
Objectively.
But acknowledging that meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant losing control.
So she stayed distant in crucial moments—rarely initiating contact, dodging deeper conversations.
Yooyeon noticed.
Of course she did.
For someone self-conscious, she was painfully perceptive.
One evening, after another almost-date that felt one-sided, Yooyeon sat alone in her dorm, staring at their chat.
Maybe Seoyeon was just lonely.
Maybe she was convenient.
Maybe someone more expressive, more emotionally available, would fit her better.
The thought hollowed her out.
It happened on a rainy Friday.
They stood beneath the awning outside the university building, the fourth floor lights glowing behind them.
“Seoyeon,” Yooyeon began, voice trembling despite her attempt at steadiness. “I need to say something before I lose the nerve.”
Seoyeon’s stomach tightened.
“I’ve liked you since last year,” Yooyeon said. “Before the app. Before the stupid joke. I thought you were… unreachable. And when I saw you there, I thought maybe I had a chance.”
She swallowed.
“But I don’t know if you actually like me. And I don’t want to keep guessing. You deserve someone who’s sure. Someone better at this than me.”
“Yooyeon—”
“I really like you,” she finished, eyes glassy. “I think I love you. But I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one standing on this side.”
Then she stepped back.
And left.
Just like that.
Seoyeon stood alone again.
Alone and lonely.
The rain blurred her vision, or maybe it was something else.
She replayed every moment—the jokes, the nervous laughter, the way Yooyeon’s eyes softened when looking at her.
She had been waiting for certainty to appear like a clinical diagnosis.
But feelings weren’t case studies.
They were risks.
And she had let her stubborn pride push away the one person who made the fourth floor feel less empty.
Seoyeon inhaled sharply.
Exhibit A had reached a conclusion.
It took three days for her plan to form.
Disciplined. Calculated.
She texted the president of “The Chemistry Love” under the pretense of coordinating a joint event. Requested a meeting in their org room Friday evening.
She knew Yooyeon would be there.
When she arrived, Yooyeon looked startled.
“Oh. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I set this up,” Seoyeon replied.
The room emptied gradually, sensing something unspoken.
Soon, it was just them.
Silence stretched.
Yooyeon looked prepared to bolt.
“Don’t,” Seoyeon said quickly.
Yooyeon froze.
Seoyeon stepped closer, heart pounding erratically—so much for rationality.
“I am terrible at this,” she admitted. “I analyze instead of feel. I hesitate instead of act.”
Yooyeon’s eyes flickered.
“But I missed you,” Seoyeon continued. “In three days, the fourth floor felt wrong. Too quiet. And I realized… I wasn’t just lonely. I was lonely without you.”
Yooyeon’s breath hitched.
“I like you,” Seoyeon said firmly. “Not because of an app. Not because you were there. I like you because you’re passionate and sincere and brave enough to confess even when you were scared.”
She took another step forward.
“I’m scared too. But I don’t want someone better. I want you.”
Silence.
Then Yooyeon laughed softly, tears slipping free. “You’re still so stubborn.”
“And you’re still terrible at chemistry jokes.”
Yooyeon smiled. “So… this is you confessing?”
“This is me choosing you,” Seoyeon corrected.
Yooyeon closed the distance between them, tentative but hopeful. “Then I’m still on this side.”
“So am I.”
And for the first time in a long while, Yoon Seoyeon wasn’t alone in her thoughts.
Loneliness, it turned out, wasn’t cured by swiping right on everyone.
Just the right one.