Somewhere In Brooklyn

23 - November 26

It's almost dawn and I'm still not sleeping.

How could I, when your voice is still echoing inside my head? When I can still smell the perfume of your handkerchief? When my hand my hand is still clutching the water bottle you gave me?

I'm that whipped, ugh.

You stayed beside me. You introduced yourself then calmed me down, saying nice things that makes me sink further into this lovesick mess.

"It's okay to cry. Crying is good. You know, I think for some people who... spent most of their time hiding and isolating themselves, they don't know how to open up. They would just burst like a time bomb. They would cry so hard and it would be so unglamorous that they want to be alone so that no one will judge their puffy red eyes or... the snot that's coming out of their nose."

I turned around, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my jacket, and you laughed, taking out a handkerchief from your pocket and helped me clean my face.

"But why do we have to hide that? People cry. I can only imagine for some people that it's the only way they can let out all the things that they've bottling up inside their chest. And it feels good when the weight that you've been carrying on your chest is slowly coming out. Don't be ashamed to cry, okay?"

And now I feel like crying again because it sounds like you know how it feels.