Jian couldn't stop.
Even when his grandfather patted his back and stroked his hair, whispering soothing things like, "It's okay now, it's okay… I'm here," the sobs kept coming. Deep, shaking sobs that wracked his chest and clogged his throat.
His face burned, red and hot, his eyes puffed and swollen from how much he had cried. It didn't matter how many times he blinked, the tears kept falling.
All the fear, the nights spent wondering if his grandfather was dead, the pain of holding it all in—now it was pouring out and he had no control over it.
His grandfather tried to gently pull him back, to get him to sit down or drink something, but Jian just clung tighter, crying into the soft fabric of the old man's shirt like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop.
It was ugly and raw and loud.
