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C R Y I N G A G A I N ❛ we could talk it good, how you wish it would be all the time ❜ ( twenty one )
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the first time you did it, it was an accident.
well, not an accident per se, but you certainly hadn't planned it. you hadn't planned that you'd get sad while being with friends at the little coffee place just three lousy blocks away from your house. it was late in the afternoon and there weren't many people there. it wasn't a very well-known place, so the bathrooms were empty most of the time. but you'd learn that later on, after gaining some experience.
that first time, you had quickly excused yourself after zoning out for a bit more than a minute until one of your friends had snapped her fingers right to your face to ask you what was up. you had gotten up, murmured something, and gone to the bathroom. which was empty. you locked yourself in one of the (three) stalls, sat on the toilet and let an inordinate ammounts of tears out.
something twisted about life is that it can hit you unexpectedly, so unexpectedly that sometimes it feels like a cruel joke, and that, if there was a god, he had it as his goal to make you suffer.
you cried for at least ten minutes until you decided to stop yourself and pull yourself together. you felt the pressure to hold in what you hadn't been quite able to let out, which didn't feel convenient. but the need to please, the need to not cause worry... they take over. so much so that you didn't even wish the opposite. i have to go back to my friends. period. enough with the crying.
the second time, you had been seeking for it. because you remembered the comforting silence in that bathroom. you had almost felt... unbothered. it was another bad day so, halfway through your smoothie (swallowing throat lumps and copious amounts of whipped cream), you went to the bathroom. empty again. yes.
you cried for longer that time. the pressure to join a group didn't exist. it was almost like there was no one else in the world. it was the first time that you actually felt like you had sat down and let out every single thing that needed to be banished from the grounds of your system.
it almost felt good.
before too long, and before you even realized it, it became a thing. walking three blocks only to order something (that you'd only half consume) and cry in a peacefully empty girl's bathroom.
it was almost like a routine. and routines were good; you liked routines. they gave you the blissful illusion of having something going on.
but routines can be altered. and, in this case, not precisely by you.
you had lost count of how many times you had cried inside those stalls when you heard the door open for the first time since your grand discovery. you fell silent immediately, and decided to wait until the girl had finished doing her business to resume your cathartic process.
