Stranger.

We didn’t know each other, just two strangers sharing a room with ten other people, and kids.

She and I never shared our personal lives, or stories form the past. We just liked the craziness in each other— perhaps that was what made us feel connected. She asked me, “Were you always that quirky, or you've just turned so, recently?” I didn't know. I didn't even know if I could be called quirky at all. All I knew was that I wanted to stay happy, feel happy, look happy, think happy, talk happy. Happy was the only thing that could overcome that soul-devouring feeling of gloom and—heartbreak. Happy was the only thing that could make you feel less dead, more alive.

When I told her that just ignoring all that I don’t like to see or hear or think about was the reason how I could smile all the time, she looked into my eyes, and smiled. “You carry a load of grief in there”, she said then, pointing towards the two black wells, surrounded by ice-covered fields.

My words could lie, my eyes could not. I wanted to hug her, but just managed to smile.

Sometimes you're too vulnerable to a stranger.