[Intro – spoken barely above silence, as if leaning into the listener’s ear] Do you hear it? That quiet that feels too full. That space that presses back when you breathe. That is not silence. That is her clearing her throat. [Verse 1 – spoken with gentle mockery, slow and patient] They call her Miss Loneliness. Not because she is alone. But because she makes sure you are. She doesn’t chase. She waits until the room empties. Until the lights are off. Until even your thoughts stop calling for help. [Verse 2 – spoken softly, like a secret meant only for one person] She is a whisper of Umbra, a fragment shed from the Queen of Nightmares when even shadows needed comfort. She doesn’t scream. She asks questions. Questions that sound like your own voice. [Interlude – spoken tenderly, unsettling in its kindness] “Why do you hate the dark?” she asks. “You’re never this scared when others are watching.” She smiles where you can’t see her. She prefers it that way. [Verse 3 – spoken closer now, almost overlapping the listener’s thoughts] Miss Loneliness sits beside you when your phone goes quiet. When the house settles. When the world forgets to knock. She hums in the gap between heartbeats. She counts how long it takes before you start answering her back. [Verse 4 – spoken with slow certainty, no emotion, no mercy] She doesn’t lock the door. She convinces you not to leave. She doesn’t blind you. She reminds you how little you were ever seen. And once she learns your name, she never mispronounces it. [Final Warning – spoken low, absolute, inescapable] So tell me. Why are you afraid of being alone in the dark? Because she is there. And she has been waiting for the moment no one else was.
