I cried.
Somewhere in the middle of a sentence
I had said a hundred times before
it just — arrived.
Because I had always had a reason for people.
Always.
She didn't mean it.
He was struggling.
You don't know what they've been through.
Of course they acted that way.
Of course.
Look at what they're carrying.
And I would feel it —
genuinely feel it —
the weight of what they were living
pressing into my chest
until there was no room left
to feel anything else.
I don't think that's wrong.
I still don't.
Empathy is not a flaw.
But somewhere in all that understanding
was a man
who had never quite
let himself feel
what any of it had cost him.
I cried for him.
Maybe for the first time.
And when it passed
I was still there.
Still me.
Turns out
I had been here
the whole time.