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Last Friday, after a long day, I went to a friend’s house.

He is my go-to person. With him, I don’t censor anything. Not a word. I don’t have to worry about how I sound.

The first thing we did was fill his kitchen. Groceries, chicken, the basics. I was ordering. He was putting things away.

It reminded me of home. When my family visits someone in a new house, they don’t just sit. They fill the kitchen first. That is how they say, we are here.

We cooked together. We ate. We walked for half an hour. Then we sat and talked for almost two hours.

He told me about someone he trusted. He gave a lot. What he hoped for never came back.

I listened. I told him we have to be grateful that things happen, even this.

But I knew that feeling.

Something like that broke my heart too. A long time ago.

I never really said it out loud. I kept it inside and kept moving. I thought carrying it alone was the strong thing to do.