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Only you know why you cry. Deep or inconsequential, earth-shattering or trivial—it barely matters, but it’s tattooed so deep into your sinew that you feel brittle. Fragile. Having paper skin and glass bones has never been less of a cliché as you find yourself quivering, sinking to the ground behind a tent.
You don’t even remember when the feeling started. Maybe it had been there all day, sitting quietly beneath your ribs. Maybe it’s been following you for weeks.
Does it hurt? Does it feel hollow? You don’t know. But if you’d held it back for any longer, you would’ve broken. There’d been pressure spiderwebs forming against your mental barriers for far too long.
You told yourself you were fine. You’ve been telling yourself that for a while now.
The Circus, with all its rides and amusements, jingles behind you in a sort of taunting melody that makes the tears that twinkle out of your eyes seem wrong. The dirt beneath you grinds into your palms as you lock your arms behind you to lean backward. But then you realize: the canvas gives beneath your weight. Nothing here was built to hold you.
The laughter out there doesn’t pause. No one notices the absence of ... you.
So you curl forward, wrapping your body in on itself like a fleshy, gossamer cocoon. You try to swallow the sound in your throat, but it escapes anyway.
You’ve never really understood people’s willingness to catalogue themselves as a pretty crier or not. Allowing the floodgates inside you to open into rivulets down your face isn’t some sort of tableau for someone else’s amusement. You aren’t attempting to generate a spectacle. You’re not a Circus attraction.
You’re just tired of holding it in. Tired of being composed. Yet, even as you try to brush away some of the tears rolling down your cheek in uneven streaks, you know you’re just … crying.
And that's okay. Your head is in your hands like they’re the only cradle it’s ever known, and every time you swipe at your nose, it becomes pinker—from weeping and from the constant attention. Separated and long, your eyelashes join your welling tears in blurring your vision. Your chest stutters out a jagged cut of air.
Nobody will find you here. Although the music continues to hum, you’re far away from the other colorful tents where macabre performances light up the crowd, who were eager to see the “of Horrors” descriptor of this Freak Circus.
You don’t hear footsteps. There’s no courteous warning of an approach. No crunch of gravel, no shifting canvas, no jingling of bells, despite the fact that he has so many looped onto his costume. But the air suddenly feels like it’s bleeding a livewire.
The music seems to distort for a moment, as a shadow stretches across the dirt in front of you.
“Interesting,” he purrs, his voice low and amused.
You lift your head only a fraction and peer at Harlequin through half-lidded eyes. He looks like a neon smudge in your tearstained vision. You want to tell him to go away, but then he’d hear how your voice wavers.
He circles you once, prowling, his white teeth glinting like a shark’s. “Lost, kitten? You should be careful—keep looking so helpless and someone, present company included, might be tempted to take a little bite.”
Suddenly, you feel his breath sear your face. He lingers centimeters from your skin, before he makes a sound. It’s a cocktail of personal offense and discontent. The corners of his grin downturn as he finally takes in your tears. “I see. Exclude present company, then. That’s not the way I like my prey dripping.” Like a yo-yo, one of his eyebrows begins to twitch uncontrollably. You watch his shadow straighten as he raises up and shoves his hands in his pocket. “Humhum, definitely not my style. Don’t let me stop you, dear, but I don’t do this part.”
He tarries only a heartbeat longer; his gaze is sharp and unreadable before the amusement drains from it like water from a tub. With a scoff and a dismissive flick of his head, he turns. The air lightens as he walks away. His silhouette disappears into the folds of stalls and attractions.
But you remain where you are, curled in the dirt, crying just the same.
Minutes pass. You have no idea how many—five, ten, fifteen. One, even? Your sobs have dulled into quiet hiccups, but there is a steady wetness to your face. Then, the canvas shifts at your side.
He’s back.
You don’t look up this time, but you feel him leaning against the tent pole, his shoulder braced almost casually. Casually enough that he could convince himself that he was just here by coincidence.
You don’t say anything.
But Harlequin's voice is barely light enough to mask the blade hiding underneath. “… Is it that Pierrot?”
You shake your head. “No.” At another time, you might’ve had to swallow your laugh. Imagine Pierrot making you cry. You’re sure he’d be the one crying at that.
“Someone else, then?” he asks, and, though his tone stays smooth, the knife’s edge is still showing. This time, it’s sharp enough to cut.
“No,” you manage again. The word comes out ragged as you wipe your nose. “It’s just … a lot.” And that’s all you offer.
There’s another quiet beat.
“… Hum,” he mutters at last. You hear him shift his weight. Then, haltingly, like he’s forcing the syllables through his teeth, he bites out, “That’s … fine. Let it be that, then … ‘a lot.’”
Something—not his arm, not his fingers—slithers into the space above your shoulder. It hovers, not quite touching, but still emanating enough heat to seep into your clothes. “Don’t make a habit of this,” he warns. “Crying where anyone could see.” A sigh. “But if you have to … do it somewhere where I can find you.” He continues to linger, not looking at you. “For now, just get it over with.”
So you do. The tears continue to trail down your cheeks, and your eyelashes cling together in dewy spikes.
And he doesn’t leave.