Learning to Cry Silently
1422 Words
Lucian learned many things before he learned how to cry.
He learned how to tie his shoes neatly, double-knotting the laces so they would not come undone. He learned how to read faces—how to tell when a caretaker was in a good mood and when silence would be safer. He learned which floorboards betrayed footsteps and which corners hid him best during moments when the world felt too large.
But crying?
Crying took longer.
Because crying required belief.
And belief, Lucian would discover, was fragile.
At first, he cried the way all children did—loudly, honestly, without shame. When hunger gnawed at his stomach. When a toy was taken. When a voice was raised too sharply. His tears came freely, spilling down his cheeks, his small body shaking with the effort of wanting something he could not name.
In the beginning, people came when he cried.
Not quickly. Not warmly. But they came.
A caretaker would sigh, lift him, murmur words meant more for procedure than comfort. Sometimes a bottle followed. Sometimes a firm pat. Sometimes nothing but a reminder to be quiet.
Lucian learned that crying did not guarantee relief.
Still, he tried.
Because children always try first.
The incident happened when Lucian was nine.
It was an ordinary afternoon, the most dangerous kind. No visitors. No inspections. No special meals or performances. Just routine—steady and dull and unforgiving.
The children were assigned to clean the storage room behind the west corridor. It was a narrow space filled with old furniture, broken toys, and boxes stacked higher than they should have been. Dust clung to everything, thick enough to taste.
Lucian was given the task of sorting donated clothes.
“Fold anything usable,” Mr. Dean instructed. “Throw the rest away.”
Lucian nodded and began.
He worked carefully, shaking out shirts, smoothing wrinkles with small, precise hands. Most of the clothes were too big or too worn—collars frayed, buttons missing. But then he found a sweater.
It was navy blue, soft to the touch, barely used. When Lucian lifted it, something slipped from the pocket and fell to the floor.
A photograph.
Lucian froze.
It showed a woman holding a child. The woman was smiling—wide, unguarded. The child was small, tucked securely against her chest, one arm slung around her neck as if it belonged there.
Lucian stared.
Something tightened in his chest.
He did not know why this photograph affected him so deeply. It was not his mother. He knew that. He had never seen her face. And yet, the image felt personal, intimate—like a door opening into a room he had never been allowed to enter.
He picked up the photo carefully, as if it might break.
“Hey,” Samuel’s voice cut in. “That’s mine.”
Lucian looked up.
Samuel stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He was a year older, bigger, louder. He had been adopted once and returned within six months.
“Give it back,” Samuel said.
Lucian hesitated.
“I found it in the sweater,” he said quietly.
“It’s my mom,” Samuel snapped. “They let me keep it.”
Lucian’s fingers tightened around the photo.
“I wasn’t going to keep it,” he said. “I just—”
“Give it to me!”
Samuel shoved him hard.
Lucian stumbled backward, hitting the shelf behind him. Boxes rattled. One tipped.
Time slowed.
Lucian heard someone shout. He raised his arms instinctively—but they were too small, too late.
The box fell.
It struck his shoulder, then his head.
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
Lucian hit the floor.
For a moment, the world dissolved into noise—shouting, footsteps, Samuel’s panicked breathing. Then the noise faded, replaced by a high ringing that swallowed everything else.
Lucian lay still.
He felt warm liquid trickle down the side of his face.
Someone screamed his name.
Hands lifted him roughly, not gently, jostling his aching body. The ceiling swam above him, lights blurring into streaks.
“Why were you fighting?” Mr. Dean demanded, his voice sharp with anger rather than concern.
Lucian tried to speak.
His throat closed.
Tears filled his eyes—not from emotion alone, but from pain so sharp it made breathing difficult. His head throbbed. His shoulder burned.
“I—” he tried.
Samuel spoke quickly. “He took my picture. I just pushed him.”
Mr. Dean turned his gaze on Lucian.
“Is that true?”
Lucian’s vision blurred. He nodded weakly—not because it was true, but because explaining felt impossible.
Mr. Dean sighed. “You should know better than to cause trouble.”
The nurse cleaned his wound briskly, dabbing antiseptic that stung like fire. Lucian flinched but did not cry out. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “Could’ve been worse.”
Lucian nodded.
No one asked how he felt.
No one held his hand.
No one apologized.
That night, Lucian lay in bed, head wrapped in gauze, shoulder aching every time he shifted. The dormitory was quiet except for the hum of insects outside and the soft breathing of sleeping children.
Lucian stared into the darkness.
Tears welled up again—hot, insistent.
He let them fall.
At first, they came silently, soaking into his pillow. His chest hitched as he tried to contain the sobs rising inside him. His body remembered how to cry, even if his mind resisted.
He cried for the pain.
He cried for the injustice.
He cried for the photograph.
He cried for the arms in the picture—the ones that held without hesitation.
He cried until his head hurt worse.
Until his eyes burned.
Until exhaustion wrapped around him like a blanket.
And nothing happened.
No footsteps approached.
No voice whispered comfort.
No hand brushed his hair.
Lucian cried himself empty.
In the morning, the world continued unchanged.
Breakfast was served on time. Chores assigned. Lessons taught. Samuel avoided his gaze but faced no consequences.
Lucian understood then.
Crying did not change anything.
Not the rules.
Not the pain.
Not the indifference.
That realization settled into him quietly, like dust.
From that day on, Lucian cried differently.
When tears came—and they still did—he swallowed them. He learned to blink slowly, to breathe evenly, to let the wave pass without leaving a trace. His face became a mask of calm, his eyes carefully blank.
Caretakers praised his composure.
“So mature,” they said.
“Such a strong boy.”
They mistook survival for strength.
Lucian began to feel emotions like distant weather—storms he observed but never stood beneath. Anger simmered without exploding. Sadness pressed without spilling over. Joy flickered briefly, then dimmed.
He learned to cry in his chest instead of his eyes.
At night, he pressed his fist against his mouth when the ache grew unbearable. He cried silently, shoulders barely moving, breath measured. He became an expert at grieving without evidence.
The other children did not notice.
Or perhaps they did and understood too well to comment.
Lucian stopped expecting fairness.
He stopped expecting protection.
He stopped expecting anything at all.
And in doing so, he became easier to manage.
The orphanage liked that.
But something else happened too—something quieter, more dangerous.
Lucian stopped believing that his pain mattered.
He began to think of himself as background noise—something that could be ignored without consequence. He learned to absorb hurt rather than resist it, to accept blame rather than argue.
Because arguing required hope.
And hope, Lucian decided, was for children who believed someone was listening.
On his tenth birthday, a cupcake appeared on his tray. A candle was stuck into the frosting.
“Make a wish,” a caretaker said absently.
Lucian looked at the flame.
For a moment, a wish rose unbidden.
I wish someone would notice me.
He blew out the candle without wishing.
That night, Lucian lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, his head still aching faintly where the scar was forming beneath his hair.
He did not cry.
He did not even want to.
Because somewhere deep inside him, a small, tender part had learned the truth too early:
Tears were loud.
Silence was safe.
And if he was going to survive this house that was never a home, he would have to learn how to break quietly.
- Writer
