Ocean In A Teacup

He made eye contact and said hi in a hallway.

Casual.

Light.

Ordinary.

As if everything that had happened could be reduced to that—

a word, a smile, a moment no bigger than passing someone on the way into a meeting.

But you can’t put the ocean in a teacup.

You can’t compress the

intimacy,

connection,

deception,

exposure,

explosion,

and truth into a syllable and expect it to behave.

You can’t pour depth into porcelain and pretend it won’t spill.

I said hello back and smiled.

Because that’s who I am.

Because politeness and warmth is muscle memory.

Because my body knows how to move through public space with grace.

But I watched it hit him in real time—the miscalculation.

The weight of everything rushing up behind that single word.

The recognition that the container was too small.

That the story was too big.

That I was standing there holding the whole ocean,

and he had brought a teacup.

He mumbled something.

I didn’t catch it.

As he walked away.

Not because there was nothing to say—

but because there was far too much.

Unfinished business,

sent out to sea and left there on purpose.

Because otherwise he would have to say,

"I built you a world that wasn't real,

decorated it with words of love and safety,

and I knew it the whole time."