Some would probably tell you that it’s alright to cry, and to go a step further, you would also be probably told that it would be abnormal if you were not to. However, I’m not too sure how I feel about the subject. I mean, once those tear gates open up, it’s impossible to stop it from pouring out even for me. I’ve always liked to consider this as the medieval contraption of gates. The only difference here is that the opening and shutting of the gate are not controlled by clean-cut human mechanics of pulling the lever; these outbursts have a mind of their own. One side of me would sneer at this display of stupidity — no purpose behind it, nothing gained. Just an inconsequential human trauma response to a trigger that affects our lives and turns our world upside down temporarily.

And it’s annoying. Useless. But I can’t help it.

There is no certain way to describe it. Or even a right way. I can’t remember the last time I’ve fully cried my eyes out like this before. At least, it’s the first time over him. Sure, I’ve had bouts of nighttime sadness. Of nights spent in nothing but lonesome heartache eating away at your soul. Of my eyes watering as if something was irritating them but the tears refuse to fall. This is truly the first time where my face has been stained wet from the tears that won’t stop coming. Nothing dramatic, over the top, no Ruby Gillis-styled schoolgirl breakdowns, just silent tears. No sobbing, no burying my face in my hands. Just continuous tears that refuse to get a grip as they continue to fall down my face.

Where my body would proceed, however mechanically, in my daily activities no problem, the tears remain and multiply. There was no connection with my external movements, it was as if my true consciousness in the form of a little girl hid away in a windowless dark room, refusing to budge from her grief. Long moments of pain where you feel outside your body as you proceed with those tasks, feeling like you are on the verge of suffocation. As if something is going to happen and everything will fall back into place or crash down —

No, we all know what this is. You are just waiting for him to come to you. A text to pull you out of your misery. As if that stupid notification is your lighthouse guiding your next course of action. You know your current outburst will immediately be soothed by that text and the tears will magically dry up. It could be anything. A simple response to something he hasn’t bothered to get to. Or something insipid and altogether irrelevant. The content itself is not what matters, anything will do its trick. What matters is that you know that text will pull you out of your current haze and make things right again. If not temporarily.

But when it doesn’t come, another wave hits you. 

And pulls you under. 

Every time you allow yourself to imagine through the misty screen that this will be the moment he’s finally going to be your salvation, nothing comes. And another wave hits. Where you’ll do anything to make it stop, but the structure of pride you have construed yourself upon will not let you. 

It is an ironic tragedy in itself: knowing what must be done, but too prideful to subjugate yourself in the temporary happiness of your making.