For a thing, he had known for three long years and had been hiding it all the time and dyingly living with that truth every single day, he never cried. A little mourning with a bit of sad expressions nobody can read was the feeling he had which nobody else he knew had felt or will ever feel. Even though he had accepted it, but still it hurts. For the courage and the faith he had in himself, he could not have borne it all alone. But for how long? He still tolerates it, bears it, controls himself, but for how long? He surely can overcome all those odds alone, this much of strength he has. But for how long can he control his tears? Would you be able to if you were him? He had been writing it out to bring out his pain… But can it stop the tears from coming out? It had been doing so till now. Will everything be same always? But what the devil had happened? He cried for the thing he thought he never would. He hopes it to be the last time but doubts its certainy, for every single tear drop that poured down his cheeks increased his strength twice more than the deterioration of the strength which caused those tears. His eyes were furnace and the tears were the heat pouring down which were once stored as his strength inside him, and they dry and penetrate inside, down their way to be recollected again so that they can again be stored as his power, his strength.