Real men don’t cry

The clouds imitated the roar in his heart. The rain sounded as heavy as his suppressed tears. He used his long, healthy locks to hide the pain. He needed to scream. He needed to use expletives that would shock the most foul-mouthed of his friends. Just last week, she had told him things would be alright. It had been only two days since she had left. His older sister could cry. Anywhere and everywhere. She could grab anybody’s hand and burst into loud tears. But he had to remain a man. Well, if real men don’t cry, let me be whatever I am, he thought, and threw himself into his despair. Right then and there.


He said sorry with his eyes showing apology. She looked back with anger, dotted with amusement. “Sorry is not enough,” she said. “Then what can I do? Please tell me,” he begged. She looked at him for the first time since he had come. He was wearing the same crisp blue shirt that used to make her heart race. His jeans fit as nicely as before. She remembered the feeling of his protective arms around her, his cologne adding to her dreamy state. Then she saw his hands. They weren’t the same hands anymore. Those hands had touched the forbidden. She felt a strong flicker of rage run through her. His eyes searched her. She felt her mouth saying no. The tug-of-war between mind and heart ended. She left with a smile.