QUANTITY taught me how straightforward it is to mix up presence with connection. Emptiness was no stranger to me. Even on days filled by laughter and familiar voices—doubt lingered quietly beneath it all. 

Loneliness has a way of thinning boundaries, often allowing the desperation for company to override the necessity of depth and substance. I began to wonder if I was actually connecting or merely sacrificing my authenticity just to remain relevant. A thought echoed within me, “Were these bonds ever genuine, or was I really just clinging out of fear of being alone?”

The accumulation of multiple connections made it evident how one can be constantly engaged yet still feel unanchored—where familiarity often stands in for intimacy. Shared spaces do not always foster shared understanding, and physical proximity does not necessarily translate into genuine closeness. 

The majority of us move through numerous social circles with the assumption that the more connections we obtain, the better. At first glance, this seems harmless—even exciting. You find yourself talking to people from different backgrounds, sharing spaces, routines, and moments. There is a sense of belonging everywhere at once, and you convince yourself that this abundance is something worth holding onto.

However, over time, that abundance began to crumble. Conversations start to feel forced rather than natural. Hangouts happen not out of desire, but of obligation—an effort to keep everything intact. On the surface, everyone appears content, yet beneath it all, the connections feel increasingly superficial. You begin to realize that these relationships are not sustained by genuine attachment, but by circumstance.

I often think that if this feeling had a name, it would be exile—the quiet fear that no one would come, that no one would care. There was weight in that realization at first, a heaviness that lingered through long nights of thought. Yet with time, that fear began to shrink. What once felt consuming revealed itself as less permanent than it seemed. In facing the possibility of being alone, the urgency to cling softened. 

What remained was something unexpected: comfort. In recognizing that absence, I also acknowledged what remained. A small circle, yes—but one built on sincerity and meaning, one that did not require constant presence to prove its worth. And in that understanding, I found reassurance that a few genuine connections can carry far more significance than countless hollow ones. 

There was a profound relief in no longer needing to spread myself thin across countless spaces, just for the sake of something that never mattered in the first place. When you realize that a distorted tomorrow provides no salvation, the illusion of more loses its power and leaves behind only what matters. 

Parting with quantity did not come without loss, but it provided clarity. What faded made space for what endured, and in that space, it became clear why I chose quality over quantity.