I was at home alone during all of covid until this January when I moved to a new city and I have two roommates. They are great. I couldn't believe how much we had in common. My depression pretty much went away for a month. But I'm slowly realizing how different our ideas about the world are. When they want something, they do it. They enjoy talking to their families. They joke with them. I don't want to talk to my parents but I do it out of obligation. I don't tell them how great the past month has been; they don't deserve to see my happiness. There are just a bunch of little things that show me that they had safe, comfortable, loving homes that valued their happiness and encouraged their personal growth. On a basic level, I just can't relate to them. Maybe we could form a closer bond if I shared my traumas, but I really don't want to do that. And maybe my inability to share my traumas will prevent me from ever getting really close to anyone.