Troubles

He realized that it wasn't going to work only after he started having difficulty reading. On the train, convulsing with each push and pull of the conductor's levers and buttons, he was reading the listings for others' lives, stories. Visions and sounds. And the jerky middle-school dance moves of a newly pubescent boy that the train so accurately emulated were not the reasons that he had difficulty reading. Instead, the glaucomic glaze of a once healthy eye now blurred and fogged the letters into heiroglyphics. "Domesticated" became "doomeshishddd" as he came to understand that this would be the next time he's had something wet drip from his eyeballs.
This was not a death, nor was it a conversation with his totalitarian though nonetheless maternal mother, so he didn't bawl or sob. This was an incident, possibly traumatic (he wasn't sure; he hadn't set a criteria for what constitutes trauma yet)that created the bittersweet opportunity for him to weep. He felt like his more androgynous 15 year old self again, a time when it felt good to cry knowing how his body rationed its minimal reserve, as his stoicism diluted with each letter cascading into impressionistic swatches. But he also felt drained. Disoriented. Absolutely rubbed out.
The paradox of his desire to flee and desire to help, desire to ignore and follow her "I wasn't going to tell you in the first place" creed and the desire to stay with his internal "no matter what" I'magoodman speech pushed the water out. He did not want to become like so many others he'd encountered, bearing responsibilities unfit for such an age in such a century. He had aspirations that required independence, a sizable bank account, and an opportunity to further his education.
"Call me if you need to." he texted with resolute frustration. He didn't want to face the realities he was just presented, but turning his back on them now would discredit the life he's tried to conduct with honesty and virtue. It is only when we have the problems we once chastised that we have our "Oh..." moments.
"I won't need to. I'll be fine on my own." Her punctual response wasn't what he wanted to read because he knew that he liked to take care of her, but wasn't willing to take care of her for good. It was the response he wanted to read because he thought he knew her strength and the earnest means by which she chose her words. He wasn't sure if it was the response he wanted to read because he knew that he only thought he knew her strength and the shaky means by which she chose her words.
With the thought that other passengers were growing curious, he wiped his eye, grunted, and carried on his bravado-facade even after the curtain had been drawn. He went back to spiraling over the films he wanted to see, but probably wouldn't.

When he was youngest, tears were common with spritely nights and drowsy days, his parents begging to rest.
Then years passed and tears escaped with the news of 3 of 9 deaths.
He wept for 3 minutes over 6 months of depressive bliss after 4 months.
Then conversations with his mother about her perpetual pessimism, his once passive-aggressive manhood, and how to identify loving each other reincarnated his tear ducts again.
This was the last time he'd weep for another pocket of tumultuous-but not enough-years.