Zoe Berg

Iris Tsouris

It is Thursday, and I am once again at Commons, crying into my bowl of Pasta e Basta. If you prefer to cry privately, this pastime might sound a little bit insane, but I stand by it. Crying in public is not manipulative nor is it soft. It is not the spectacle people think it is, nor is it an explosive unearthing of emotion. It’s true — at Commons, you won’t get a cathartic, wailing, Midsommar-esque cry in. But, like crying in a movie theater, you will be able to weep unnoticed, while still in the company of others.

As tears inevitably subside, “The Winner Takes It All” swells, quite aptly, over the Commons loudspeakers. Sidenote — who exactly is on aux here? Only at Commons could you find “Stacy’s Mom,” ABBA and bossa nova in the same playlist. Gradually, I return to my senses to find: tears mixed with bolognese doesn’t taste all that bad. 

Emily Peng

It’s nearing midnight and the moon is high in the sky, casting an eerie glow across the dewy grass of the Leitner Family Observatory and Planetarium. 

I am all by myself in the west dome of the observatory beside a comically large telescope, crying. 

To be honest, I probably could’ve refrained from crying at that moment and managed just fine. But when else would I ever have the opportunity to cry alone without fear of interruption? 

Yale doesn’t have a lot of private places to cry. Sure, my dorm is always a great option, but my roommate and suitemates would ultimately bear witness to my uncouth distress. Alternatively, one might even suggest the small study rooms in Bass, but I’ve realized — from experience — that passerbyers can still peer at my tear-stricken face and silently judge. 

At least in the west dome, where there’s always bad lighting during this time of night, neither I nor the teaching assistants would ever be able to see the dried and tacky tear streaks down my face.

And, well, I suppose crying into the void does have a ring to it, even if it’s more of a depressing liberation than a cathartic one. 

Toia Conde Rodrigues da Cunha

In lieu of my personal bathroom at home where I could sit on the clean floor and sob uncontrollably, like a normal person — my in-suite bathroom is the grossest place on campus — I have discovered the individual study rooms at Bass. Most students go there to engage in the ultimate grinding session; but for me, they serve a different purpose. Yalies, fair warning. If you peer through these windows, you might unluckily find me balling my eyes out — and it’s not pretty. When I’m in there, I act as if no one can see me. I have recently discovered this to be untrue, as just the other week, I committed the huge mistake of looking outside for a split-second, mascara dripping heavily down my face, and a passer-by looked me dead in the eyes and freaked. I just wanted to rethink my life choices. They just wanted to finish an English paper.