I always CRY

Bilingual Blog- English version is down below

我流了一滴眼泪。

小小一滴，只有一滴。

舔起来酸酸的，竟然还有点发光，很烫。像不是水，是一点点黄昏。

我把它收好，藏到心底一个没人会发现的角落。

可有时候，夜里，它还是会变成海。

平静的那种，但危险。

我不知道怎么对它好。

“小小的泪，你到底怎么了？”

我试着把它带到阳光底下晒，晒成一块结晶的石头。

然后我又把它藏了回去。

它也没有再变成海了。

眼泪，是情绪里最无声的语言。

我想用它写一封信。

它不是任何东西的替代品，

它就是那种我快撑不下去的时候、想撞向群山的冲动，

但在撞之前，它替我下了一场雨，让我稍微能喘口气。

这有什么错？

错的不是它。是我，是这个不够坚固的容器。

是那些站在干燥高处、用词锋利的人语，落在我身上。

人们总喜欢以“关心”的名义教我如何改造自己——

人们警告我说，“继续这样下去，终会被丢下。”

轻飘飘的威胁，却正好砸在我最惧怕的深渊上。

那种离弃感，如一条看不见的绳索，绞紧了我那些本能地伸向理解的触角。

凌晨四点半，眼眶抽干以后开始酸痛，一直睡不着。

这是眼泪的坏处，会让人真的感到身体上的痛。

我吃了一粒止痛药，四十分钟后疼痛停了，但泪还是停不下来。

人们问我，“你怎么这么难过？有必要吗哭哭唧唧的”

他们站得很高，觉得哭是脆弱的表现，是羞耻的。

我却缩成一团，连抬头都不敢。

我唯一感到温暖的，是那段静默的陪伴。

你坐在我潮湿的边界，带着一点弯起的唇角——那种笑，像微风拂过沾满露水的蛛丝。不催促、不打断、不评判。

只是静静地坐着，用眼神包裹我，将我所有的混乱与破碎，一一接住。

那不是安慰，而是一种庄严的允许。

允许我哭，让我知道，哭也可以是一种生命力，哭也很可爱。

眼泪不管我愿不愿意，就流，像它有自己意识一样。

鼻子开始出泡泡，纸巾抽掉一整包，脸肿得像气球。

眼睛睁到最大也只剩一条缝，不过单眼皮嘛，也正常。

“别人说的，不一定是对的。要信我，信我嘴巴里讲出来的你，信我眼睛里映出来的你。”

你的目光从未离开，但也不曾审视。

那种平静，让我想起海——辽阔、柔软，毫无侵略性。我感受到了一种前所未有的安全。

在那些混乱的时刻，你轻轻摸了摸我的头发，像翻阅一本老书那样耐心。你说 我所谓的“缺点”，不过是某种未被理解的特质。

你说我以为自己太“强势”，但其实那只是内在的一种罗盘。那些罗盘引我们在迷雾中找路，也能指向你心里缺失的光。

泪水在那一刻汹涌。我想说我对不起，自己实在太糟糕。我克制不住情绪也抑制不了冲动。

但“责难”这件事，你说，必须附带“安抚”的能力。如果我责备自己后找不到出口，那会是一场更深的失落。

“你不用做这件事，会难过。”

我知道我的情绪像潮气，会汹涌的浸湿你羽毛的边缘。

可你没有退，而是更近一步。你搂着我，微潮的衣料传来实在的温度。

那一刻，我像一颗在骤雨中发光的星子，倔强而委屈。

眼泪还是止不住，但其中开始混入新的成分——温热的、不再令人窒息的情绪。

“你对我最最好，我爱你，也谢谢你。”

这本该是我说出口的话，但却哽在了泪中。

我只能以更笨拙的方式表达感激：不断流泪。

我始终觉得，情感与情绪是一棵树的根与枝。

那些悲伤、愤怒、委屈，是深埋的根系；

而爱、感激与依恋，是从根部延展出的花和叶。

当我那些被压抑的根终于在安全的土壤中舒展，

枝与叶也终于可以晃动、绽放。

这些真实、混乱、不被修饰的情绪，

正是我对你最真挚的爱意的土壤。

那一滴泪，是我成长的光源。

它让我我第一次，真诚地承认了自己情绪的重量，

也因此，学会了怎样温柔地爱。

我想用这滴眼泪写封信。

所以我只能在周末随便找个借口推掉朋友才不缺的邀请，

说我要整理内心星图啦、说要和昨夜的潮汐对谈啦…

其实就是想一个人缩进被窝，写完这封信。

——写给你，也写给自己。

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English Version：

I shed a tear.

A small one—just one. It tasted a little sour when I licked it, glowing faintly, almost burning.

It didn’t feel like water, but like a trace of twilight. I kept it safe, hiding it deep inside a corner of my heart where no one would ever find it. But sometimes, at night, it still turns into a sea—calm, yet dangerous.

I don’t know how to be good to it. “Little tear, what’s wrong with you?” I tried taking it into the sunlight, letting it dry into a crystal stone. Then I put it back again. After that, it never turned into a sea anymore.

Tears are the quietest language of emotion. I want to use them to write a letter. They are not a substitute for anything. They are what come when I’m about to break—when I want to crash into the mountains—but before I do, they fall like rain for me, giving me a little space to breathe. What’s wrong with that?

The fault isn’t in them. It’s in me—this container that isn’t strong enough.

It’s also in the sharp words of those who stand on dry, high ground. People often teach me how to remake myself in the name of “care.” They warn, “If you keep being like this, you’ll be left behind.” The words sound light, but they land precisely on the deepest fear in me. That feeling of abandonment is like an invisible rope tightening around the fragile feelers I stretch out toward understanding.

At 4:30 a.m., after crying my eyes dry, I start to feel the sting, and I can’t sleep. That’s the bad thing about tears—they make the pain physical. I take a painkiller, and forty minutes later, the ache fades, but the tears don’t.

People ask me, “Why are you so sad? Is it really necessary to cry like that?” They stand high above, thinking crying is weakness, something to be ashamed of. And I curl into myself, too small to even raise my head.

The only warmth I feel is from that quiet companionship. You sit at the damp edge of my world, your lips curved slightly—smiling like a breeze brushing over dew-covered webs. You don’t rush, interrupt, or judge. You simply sit there, your eyes wrapping around me, catching all my chaos and cracks one by one. It’s not comfort; it’s a kind of solemn permission. Permission to cry. Permission to know that crying, too, is a form of life, that crying can even be lovely.

Tears come whether I want them to or not, as if they have their own will. My nose bubbles, tissues run out, my face swells like a balloon. Even when I open my eyes wide, there’s only a thin slit—but I have monolids anyway, so that’s fine.

“What others say isn’t always right. Believe me. Believe the you I speak about, the you reflected in my eyes.” Your gaze never leaves, but it never judges. That calmness reminds me of the sea—vast, soft, without aggression. In it, I feel a safety I’ve never known.

In those chaotic moments, you gently touch my hair, with the patience of someone turning the pages of an old book. You tell me that what I call my flaws are simply traits yet to be understood. You say I think I’m too “assertive,” but really it’s just an inner compass. Those compasses help us find our way through fog, and point toward the light we’ve been missing. Tears surge again. I want to say I’m sorry—that I’m too much, too emotional, too impulsive. But you tell me, “Criticism must come with the ability to soothe. If you scold yourself without a way out, it only leads to deeper loss.” You add softly, “You don’t have to do this if it hurts you.”

I know my emotions are like tides, sometimes flooding to the edges of your feathers. But you don’t retreat. You move closer. You hold me.

The damp fabric of your shirt carries a warmth that feels real. In that moment, I am a small star glowing in the sudden rain—stubborn, aching, and alive. The tears don’t stop, but they begin to change—mixed with something new, something warm, something that no longer suffocates.

“You are the kindest to me. I love you, and thank you.” Those are the words I want to say, but they catch in my throat. So I express them in the only way I can—by crying even more. I’ve always felt that emotions and feelings are like the roots and branches of a tree. Sadness, anger, and hurt are the buried roots; love, gratitude, and attachment are the blossoms and leaves that grow from them.

When those suppressed roots finally stretch freely in safe soil, the branches and leaves can sway and bloom. These raw, messy, unpolished emotions are the soil from which my love for you grows.

That single tear is the source of my light. It taught me, for the first time, to acknowledge the true weight of my emotions, and through that, to learn how to love gently. I want to write a letter with that tear.

So on weekends, I find excuses to turn down yet another invitation from friends—saying I’m “mapping my inner constellations,” or “talking with last night’s tide.”

But really, I just want to curl up under the covers and finish this letter.

A letter written for you, and for myself.

（But still, i wish we can all smile moreeeeeeeeeeee 👆🏻