I was thinking about the bathroom floor.

Have you ever cried on the bathroom floor? The tile is cold against your face, steaming from your tears. It almost echoes, in the quietest, most still way. It assures you that you're alone in an incredibly unnerving manner. No one hears you and no one helps you. You cry. And then you get up. And then you leave. 

I haven't cried in a very long time, but I used to a lot. Especially in bathrooms. In my own head I'm notorious for crying in the bathroom at work. Sometimes, I just need a minute. So I walk calmly to the bathroom, I take off my apron, I double check the lock, and I fall to the floor. I cry as hard as I can for one minute. Then I get up, splash my face with cold water, breathe calmly for a few seconds, and walk back out like nothing happened. I've gotten oddly good at doing this without anyone noticing. I always think someone will, but no one ever does. Then I work the rest of my shift with a small sense of anxiety and loneliness, because no one knows that I couldn't even go the rest of my shift without an emotional breakdown. 

I don't really know why I chose to write about this. I don't remember the last time I even cried, let alone at work. Maybe it's because I've forgotten how to cry at all. Sometimes I wish for terrible things to happen to me so I can cry again. But even the worst fears and pains I've had lately have done absolutely nothing. I think I've completely forgotten how to cry. And I miss it, as strange as that seems. Because I feel like without crying, everything just eats me up inside.