The Crying Saga

Tessa was crying. And crying. And crying.

She was saying something—trying to say something—but the words wouldn't come out fluently. They kept breaking in between sobs, making everything she was saying sound like one long, tragic opera with no subtitles.

Damn, why wouldn't she stop crying?

I looked around, just to confirm that no one was watching. Thank God. Because how exactly would I explain this? Hey, yeah, so I made a girl cry, but it's not what you think!

Yeah, that wouldn't go well.

I tried everything—talking, gesturing, even bribing her with more food—to make her stop, but she just wouldn't. And then, in the middle of all this, she suddenly started muttering thank you over and over again like she was stuck in a loop.

I sighed. "Tessa, you don't have to—"

"Thank you."

"I mean, it's okay—"

"Thank you."

"I get it—"

"Thank you, thank you, thank you—"

I really didn't know what to do. Darn it, why do I…

She had to stop crying. I couldn't watch this anymore.

Just then, her phone rang. Her mother.

Finally, some divine intervention.

She sniffled, wiped her face aggressively like she was about to go into battle, and picked up. "Hello, Mommy."

Her voice was steady. Good. Maybe now she'd—

"My sweet baby!" her mom's voice came through the speaker.

And just like that—bam!—the tears were back, and this time, they were worse.

I resisted the urge to physically facepalm.

Her mom kept talking, and Tessa kept crying, and I just stood there, stuck between feeling awkward and wondering how I got here. I caught bits of the conversation—something about Inside Out 2, how she'd been acting like Ennui, getting mad over little things, and—oh, she even told her mom about our fight.

Fantastic.

And then, as if things weren't already weird, her mom told her to give me the phone.

Wait, me?

I blinked, hesitated, then took the phone. "Uh, hello?"

"Hello, sweetheart!"

Sweetheart? What?

Tessa's mom was way too nice. She sounded so soft and kind, like the type of mom who'd bake cookies for the entire neighborhood and then apologize if she ran out. She thanked me for looking after Tessa and told me I should "handle her well."

"At this stage, she's going to cry a lot," she explained. "She's grateful, so just let her manage her feelings. You're her friend, so you should understand."

I glanced at Tessa, who was now eating while crying. She chewed a sausage roll and sniffled at the same time.

"Yeah," I muttered. "I'm definitely seeing that."

Her mom and I exchanged a few more words before I finally hung up.

Tessa, on the other hand, was still eating and still crying.

I watched in mild horror as she blinked rapidly—probably because she could barely see at this point. Honestly, she had probably been seeing everything in black and white before, and now, after eating, she was finally seeing colors again.

It was almost adorable. Almost.

She finished her sausage roll, sighed dramatically, then folded her arms and used her hair to hide her face.

"You don't have to be ashamed," I told her. "Everybody cries once in a while. It's fine."

She peeked through her hair and muttered, "It's not like that."

Then she went quiet again.

I sighed. "Alright, let's go. I'll escort you home."

On our way home, Tessa suddenly transformed into a walking food review blog.

She wouldn't stop buying food, and I—being the responsible friend—was trying to manage her budget. But she had other plans.

She entered one store, came out with a lot of food, and then—without asking—shoved half of it into my hands.

"Do you like this one?" she'd ask.

Before I could even open my mouth—bam—more food in my hands.

This went on for way too long.

Finally, I grabbed her wrist to stop her. "Tessa, you've bought way more than just the sausage roll and drink. You can stop now."

She blinked up at me, her big, shining eyes reflecting the streetlights.

"Daræy, you said we were friends," she started. "And I acknowledge that. I naturally like food, and I can't eat alone when there's someone with me."

I stared. "Oh."

That was all I said before changing the topic.

"You were pretty brave today," I admitted. "I mean, without even saying much, you shut them up so easily. Turns out 'brave Tessa' isn't just for me, huh? Here I was, thinking I was special."

She chuckled. "I get like that when I'm hungry."

I smirked. "I heard. Three stages of hunger—Ennui, Rage, and Sadness."

She nodded. "Well, you're the first person to ever see the last stage."

I grinned. "Guess that makes me special after all."

We both laughed and kept walking.

The Realization

After a few minutes, she glanced at me. "I like talking to you."

I shrugged. "Because I'm a good listener?"

"No," she said immediately. "Because you don't reply."

…Excuse me?

Shouldn't that be a bad thing?

She continued, "It's like I'm talking to my inner self, you know? I can talk and talk, but while I do, I also reflect on what I'm saying. It's like I give myself an answer while still feeling the presence of someone else. You make me feel comfortable."

She turned to me, smiling softly.

That was… surprising. But it also felt nice.

It was like my one bad character trait—not responding much—was actually a good thing to someone. And that meant a lot.

She's weird, but I really like this weird girl.

She makes me feel comfortable too.

Then, as if she wasn't already making my brain short-circuit, she added, "And plus, anytime I walk with you, people don't talk—they just stare."

I sighed. "That just means I attract attention, even when I don't want to."

She hummed. "Well, yeah, you attract attention. But they don't talk back. Me? I attract attention, and people always talk back. And in the end—public humiliation. The worst thing on earth."

I raised an eyebrow. "You really hate public humiliation, huh?"

"The thing I hate the most," she emphasized. "But I can't avoid it. Ever."

She kicked a tiny rock on the road, her voice softening. "But when I'm with you, I still get attention… but people keep their stupid thoughts to themselves. It's like you're always silently telling them, I don't need your opinion on my life. And they just listen.

"I like that.

"With you, I feel like I'm invisible and visible at the same time. It's balanced. Like… the waves are finally coming together. It's unstable, but—you have to get comfortable with being unstable."

That was the first time I'd ever heard someone talk like that.

We reached a junction, and I stopped. "Alright, have a nice night."

"Funny," she said. "You always escort me to my door."

I shook my head. "I'm not your chauffeur."

"But what if I get kidnapped?"

"You'll survive."

She pouted but didn't argue.

As I turned to leave, she called out, "See you tomorrow!"

"Yeah," I said. "Good luck with your presentation. Practice more if you can."

She never gets tired of lecturing people, huh?