Teardrops slid off his chin as freely as raindrops had previously.  He thought he was too strong to cry, but he was wrong.  His body had overflown with emotions, and the only way he'd been able to relieve the incredible pressure was to release it through tears.  Shivers racked his body, and he couldn't control himself.  He huddled himself under his covers, his shoulders shaking relentlessly.  He could feel his cheeks chafe as tears were wiped away by the linens and replaced by new tears, warmer, and full of more intense emotion.  He'd never felt like this, he'd never experienced this hurt, and he never thought that he would.  But he was feeling it all the same.

Earlier in the day, the one he thought he'd always have, the one he'd taken for granted since the day they were together, forsook him and shoved him to the dirt.  It was his fault, he eventually concluded, because of his carelessness with other's feelings—but he couldn't help but feel betrayed.  Part of him was torn into a million pieces and the part left over was a ruined pulp of emotions long since felt inside of him.

The covers around him were his favorite place of hiding, ever since he was a little boy.  He'd loved making forts, making enclosures, places of feeling secure.  He'd remembered reading a study of how it was a correlation to some infantile drawing to places like the womb from which they were born—and he was amazed.  Now he felt as though it would conceal his weakness, hide him from all those who could judge him and beat him down in his state of vulnerability.  He'd always been the tough guy, sticking up for his friends, and beating down the occasional one out of line. This was a sense of exposure he'd never come across before and it made him uneasy, embarrassed to be alive.

His weeping slowed to a series of quiet whimpers, and his body's shaking had calmed to a slow rocking.  He could feel the emotional intensity dampen and wane and his normal state regain control of his body.  He felt emptied, dry, and he felt uncomfortable with it, like a constant itch that he couldn't reach—not that he had the energy to even attempt to itch it.  He needed to think, to spend time within himself, to give himself a real once over that wasn't about aesthetics.  He needed to think about his mental state, his social state, and his relationship with those around him.  He needed his Shangri La to stop deteriorating.  It was all he had, and he couldn't bear to see it leave him.  So he had to get up.

He reached above his head, and pushed the linens off of him.  It took more strength than he'd wanted to give, and the light that exploded around him forced him back onto the bed, his arms over his eyes.  The intensity brought on a headache so penetrating, that he could feel the sharpness pulsing out against his forehead like a dozen daggers.  He couldn't take it, but he had to.  He rolled to his right, and fell onto his feet.  He felt the roughness of his beige carpet underneath his bare feet in a way he'd never noticed before, and he walked quickly towards the door of his room.

He looked above his doorway and his plain clock shone brightly in the dim twilight that had come about his room, and he hadn't known how long he'd been crying for.  He got home from school at 4:00, and it was now 6:30.  He stopped at his door and collapsed against it—he could feel the shivers coming back and tears forming at the corners of his eyes, the emotions taking control of him again.  He tried to blink them back, to hide his emotions like he'd done all of his life, but he couldn't, his defenses were worn thin; and tears flowed freely once more.  

They streamed down his face almost with more excess than before, and he sunk to the floor, his hands coming to cover his closed eyes.  His silent sobbing persisted again for longer than he'd wished, and he didn't regain his composure until the sun had fallen beneath the trees and a deep blue was cast upon his room, and everything inside it.  He got up once again.  He paced in front of his bed slowly, debating in his head what his action should be.  He felt indecisive and broken, empty and questioning of what he could have done to deserve such treatment.  The answer was written one the weathered face that gleamed hazily in the window he stared out of—distraught and disdain collided with docile blues and fractal pinks and oranges as the sun dipped back below the Earth.  The only person he could blame for it was himself.

He moved with uncharacteristic alacrity to the door, opened it curtly, and continued to the bathroom down the hall, avoiding the creaky floorboards as a soldier dodges mines.  His "normal" persona was one of vigilance, slow and emphatic movements that carried an air of unchallenged wisdom and stature—he couldn't give the energy to purposefully walk slowly, he needed to get his job done fast, and moving with speed was never a problem.  He reached the bathroom, and entered, turning sharply to the right to face the sleek and rounded vanity mounted against the wall.  He turned the nozzle on the sink to full blast, and stared intently into the water as it filled the sink.

The water rippled with intensity as the stream from the faucet broke through the surface, cracking his reflection into two mashed halves.  On a daily basis, he spent nearly all of his energy on appearing positive and joyful, disguising his innards, his dismal feelings of despair and foreboding.  Then it dawned on him: he couldn't just let this go.  He had to fight for what he lived for, or else he would be living a lie.