There’s a girl on a page I follow, where normal people become interesting, and her eyes are red from crying, and her hair is pink like mine. She’s in love with someone too, a bad someone. Someone who makes her eyes red and, perhaps, makes her dye her hair pink overnight because if her hair is pink, things are different for her, aren’t they?
I meet her tired eyes through the screen--she’s a million miles away, non-existent--and I cry for her. The world unites for this girl. I want to hug her and cry with her.
The world feels her pain. They tell her to leave, to be strong, to remember she is beautiful and worthy.
In such a world of hate, with so much anger, it is a gift to read these comments from strangers a hundred or a million miles away, pulling together to support a young woman they will never meet.
I haven’t cried for myself, beyond the whirling tequila breakdown, but this stranger in her bright plaid shirt, hugging her knees for self-comfort, while the world bleeds for her, brings me the catharsis of tears.
She looks like me, with her snub nose and stubborn chin, and the world clamors to boost her, and their words, in turn, boost me.
It is not such a bad place, is it? when there are people in the world crying for a stranger whose heart is broken.
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