She smiled, her eyebrow glinting beneath a tangled mess of hair.
Heat surged in her throat, but not with enough force to dislodge the stone sitting there, cold and unmoving.
She couldn't say a word. She couldn't throw her "deduction" at him, because she meant nothing to him.
She had no place, no right to question his private life. Not even the right to feel the way she did, she thought.
And yet, her brain wouldn't stop. That part of her had broken loose, spiraling on its own, obsessively refining the theory until it gleamed with a painful clarity.
She had seen the truth already:
She, the chubby student no one had ever loved — not truly, not deeply — save for that one dubious family member.
And weirdly, the feeling was familiar. Déjà vu.
But it paled compared to the hatred she felt for herself, the gnawing jealousy toward someone who might not even exist, and that ever-returning shred of motivation to lose weight. (Always the same cycle.)
Before she realized it, she was already back in her emotional detox routine:
Over-ordering McDonald's and eating every last bite. Then watching stupid, overplayed comedy videos.
And then she purged.
Yes, tears weren't enough. She couldn't cry the feelings out, so she vomited them.
(We'll spare the audience the graphic details.)
She could feel the McFlurry chunks behind her tonsils. Double Cheeseburger residue. French fry slush. It wasn't cathartic.
Add the searing stomach acid — this time probably an L-sized portion — and the pain became ritual.
She wasn't a natural vomiter. It took more than reflex.
She had to shove her forefinger deep down her throat like a midwife delivering pain.
But unlike birth, the following events came in rapid-fire labor.
Seconds later, black oil hit the toilet. Spicy pain spread through her mouth, nose, and maybe eyes (though eyes lack taste buds).
The black ooze writhed in the bowl, bubbled, and then extended something like a hand, trying to climb out of its cradle.
Before it escaped, the second arrived: smaller, green, lighter.
Then the third: just a spit-like white glob with faint yellow petals.
Let's not focus on the gory birthing.
Let's look at the newborns.
Firstborn: the black one, now sobbing in the closet.
Second: the green one, screaming tantrums all over the room.
Third: the translucent one, already dissolving in the toilet.
Their mother resumed her essay.
She felt much better.
(Of course, she had her AirPods Pro on.)
You might be wondering: is this even a superpower?
What kind of power is this?
What good is it?
Just wait.
⸻
Scene: Emotional Surrogate
The first real cry came in winter.
Frozen pipes. Broken heater. Heavy period.
She sat on the unheated floor, curled like a frostbitten snail. Rice stains on her cheek. Leftover from the meal her grandmother made — her last.
The crying started five hours later.
It began like a deflating tire, then ripped, then gushed.
That's when she discovered it:
Her tears had changed.
Something inside her — thick like rubber — had softened, swelled, then popped.
A rush of rotten emotional slush surged out.
It was an ugly cry. Like pickled fish guts cracked open.
But after that, she learned:
Not "hold it in."
Spit it out.
She called it: Emotional Ejection.
Not physical vomiting, but a kind of spiritual purging.
Where others rot inside, she expelled.
The cost? Considerable.
Once, after holding in a day's worth of self-blame in the library, she went to the bathroom at 3 a.m.
She vomited a black snake made of hair and broken nails.
It writhed in the sink, then burst into glass shards and swirled away.
That night, she understood:
Every emotion is a kind of toxic waste.
She was the disposal unit.
At first, she ejected unconsciously.
Later, she scheduled her emotional purges.
Monday: anxiety (clear and sticky, smells like burnt seaweed)
Wednesday: jealousy (dark green, bitter, sometimes glittery)
Friday: self-loathing (viscous, hard to eject, requires a mirror)
Once, she tried to expel everything in one night.
She nearly passed out on the bathroom floor.
That was the first time her emotion-triplets fought.
She started training. Managing them.
She remembered her grandmother's final look:
"You're not weak. You just haven't found a body rhythm that fits you yet."
That night she dreamed her grandmother stood at the kitchen door:
"Silly girl. If you want to cry, then cry. Don't swallow your tears."
When she woke up, her stomach didn't hurt anymore.
⸻
Scene: Emotional Surrogate (Part II)
It wasn't intentional, at first.
Her friend was breaking down.
"I can't take it anymore… I'm losing it…"
But not a single tear.
Frozen.
She stood nearby.
Suddenly, her own chest swelled.
Something surged upward.
Tears spilled down her face.
Black.
Hissing.
The drop hit the floor, sizzled like mold, and vanished.
Her friend blinked.
"That's weird… I actually feel better."
That's when she understood:
She didn't need to cry only her own emotions.
She started testing.
Library. Convenience stores. Subways. Hospitals at midnight.
Park benches where lovers yelled.
Anywhere heavy feelings leaked.
She soaked them up like a sponge.
Grief, fear, shame, envy, emptiness, guilt.
Each stayed inside her only minutes, then took form:
Fluid, mist, creatures. Exiting through her eyes.
Once, a tear turned into a transparent deer,
leapt out the window, and evaporated in the dawn.
That day, a suicidal woman checked into therapy.
She didn't want to be a hero.
But the power pulled her.
She became an emotional surrogate.
Invisible. Unthanked. Unseen.
People just felt lighter.
The price?
Of course there was one.
Her eyes burned. Her mouth tasted bile.
Sometimes her back grew hard crystal clusters of pain.
But in the mirror, those crystals refracted the colors of all human sorrow.
She thought:
Maybe this is what meaning looks like.