I remember reading a room of ones own, which I think touches on this slightly? I don't really remember, the more I think about it. You made me realize I haven't read from a physical book in a year. Anyway, rooms of ones own.
I have an exgirlfriend who extremely independent- the type that would walk rather walk 3 miles at 0 degrees F in a suburban city where everyone keeps offering a ride, the type of person who purposefully obstructs themselves or refuses to be defined, the type of person who would disappear for a few days entirely and no one I knew would know where she is (she had stayed in bed reading for days)- but this is the way she liked it, and to know her is to accept that you will always wonder about her.
I always admired her, even from afar, we've kept in touch a lot more recently, since the consequences of our solitudes have become more parallel. There is a lot of trouble at work. There is a lot of fear of strangers. There is only added complexity in the storytelling we tell ourselves. We write to each other in cryptic ways because of our literary mindedness. Sometimes we devolve into just rhyming what the other person says. I don't think we actually understand each other.
I worry a lot that I come across as needy, because I don't have the emotional intelligence that she has. She brought up that she was coming to town awhile ago, but only just revealed to me that she's been in town for a week yesterday. I want to accuse of her of being a robot, only because I know that this is what triggers her worst anxieties- all of those closest to her eventually call her a robot. I don't envy those in isolation, because I often feel as though I am only a person to be juggled in her world.