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I cry all the time. Not always because something terrible has happened. Sometimes it is a song. Sometimes it is a memory. Sometimes it is a passing thought that catches me off guard while I am making coffee or moving through an otherwise ordinary day. I cry because I miss things. People. Versions of myself. Futures I imagined so clearly that part of me still reaches for them without thinking. And I cry because I am in love. Because love, it turns out, is a far more overwhelming thing than I ever gave it credit for. It slips into everything. Into songs I have heard a hundred times before, into quiet afternoons, into the spaces between one thought and the next. Sometimes the tears arrive because I miss him. Sometimes because I am grateful he exists at all. Sometimes because there is no place for all this feeling to go, and it spills over in the only way it knows how. There are days I wish I could be lighter. Less affected. Less moved by everything. But then I wonder if the tears are not a flaw at all. Maybe they are evidence. Evidence that I loved. That I hoped. That I remained open, even after disappointment taught me not to. I used to think crying was a language of loss. Now I think it is also a language of love. So yes, I cry all the time. And perhaps that is not a sign that I am falling apart. Perhaps it is proof that something inside me is still alive enough to feel. M. June 2026


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