She wept throughout the afternoon. She wept alone, in the comfort of her pillows, in the familiar warmth of her ruffled bed sheets. And when she looked up, she saw the sunny world with the stained glass window of her eyes. Nothing had changed…

Why did she cry? She was not sad (she was not happy either). No one was rude to her; neither she wasn’t reeling in the compunction of acute sarcasm, as she is prone to. She hasn’t lost any lone war; she hadn’t fought any raging battle ever. She wasn’t crying over blunders of a kaleidoscopic past, neither was she contemplation on a uncertain future with beads of wetness. There was nothing in the world to make her sad: she was too far away.

However, she didn’t feel lonely. She was happy with herself, her slaking embers of lonesome nitty-grittiness. She was not complaining, nor was she penning an elegy with grey lines on her pillow. She hasn’t been spurned, she hasn’t been loved, and she was hardly moved.

Then why did she cry? Why then, when the trees swayed, unencumbered, with wholesome joy, when the breeze piped in through pastel curtains, when the birds sang with unbridled joy? She never did, for the tiniest of fleeting moments, feel she needed to have a reason to cry…

She knew then that she still could.

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