When I was seven years old, the faucet in the hospital toilet hid my first choked sob.
In the days that followed, the fake smile became a film on my face, and I didn't dare to tear it off even if it got wrinkled; the secret tears had to be wrapped in the excuse of "going to the toilet", mixed with the wind of the dry toilet and the sound of falling leaves in the forest; even the songs of idols only dared to be locked in the bed - for fear of being said that "sensitivity is hypocritical", for fear that "wanting to be hurt" would be too embarrassing.
Until my grandma stuffed hot eggs into my cold-red hands, the song "Don't Be Afraid" flowed from the headphones that my aunt forced me to give, and the teacher held my bleeding fingertips and said, "It's not wrong to be sad."
It turns out that those things buried in the soil, those struggling against the heavy shell, are all waiting for a "dare": dare to cry, dare to say it hurts, dare to let the shadow that has been hidden for too long slowly bask in the sun.
This is a story about "ginger buds breaking through the hard soil": the tears you have hidden will eventually turn into the light that illuminates you.
Purpose: I hope to inspire many sensitive people who have self-doubt and self-denial.