The Nakedness Each Bathroom Has Seen

Bathroom (noun) 🗣️ /ˈbɑːθ.rʊm/

:a secluded space, often with a bath, shower, and toilet (that has seen us at our most unguarded moments).

You do not weep where the sun can see, for tears in daylight are more blinding. You do not kneel in the street, wailing for the world to witness your desolation because they will only call you brittle and weak. No. You walk, steady and composed, past familiar faces, past the ones who ask how you are and the ones who do not bother. You nod. You smile. You lie, ‘I’m fine.’ And they believe. Because we shouldn’t look like our problems.

But the bathroom knows the truth.

The bathroom has seen you on your worst nights, afternoons, and evenings; when heartbreak curled its fingers around your throat, pressing until sobs broke free, when it poured chili powder into your nose until breathing became hard. It saw you slide to the tiled floor, arms wrapped around yourself, whispering, ‘Why wasn’t I enough?’ The water ran, disguising the cracks in your voice. Your body trembled, not from cold but from the weight of love that had turned to loss. It beholds your words of sorrow and how you wouldn’t tell your friends, fearing they would mock you. After all, you are known as a hard girl.

It has witnessed the silent farewell of a girl whose heart is failing. She grips the sink, staring at a reflection that has grown paler, weaker. She reads the medical reports again, the ones that tell her there is not much time. But she will not tell them. No, she will not let them worry. So she breathes, deep and slow, wiping her eyes, forcing a smile onto her lips, professing words of affirmation. Then she steps out, carrying her secret as if it is not breaking her apart.

It knows the quiet ache of a student who is tired. Who has underlined every important note, memorized every formula, spent nights awake, reading, revising, reciting, only to watch the grades ridicule her efforts. The bathroom hears her whisper, ‘What more do I have to give?’ or perhaps, ‘What am I doing wrong?’ as she leans against the mirror, her face too familiar, too exhausted, too full of questions.

The bathroom remembers the boy, no, the man. The one who was only sixteen when he learned that childhood was a privilege he could no longer afford after his father’s death. The bathroom knows his weariness, the way his fingers dig into the sink, the way his head bows under the weight of responsibilities because now he has become the head of the family. He does not cry. He clenches his jaw. He breathes heavily. He tells himself to be strong for his siblings and his mum. The bathroom listens and absorbs his grief.

It knows the sorrow of a woman who has waited. And waited. And waited. Eight years of prayers, of hopeful glances at the calendar, of whispered reassurances that this time will be different. But today, as she looks down at the PT strip, she knows it is not. Again. Her hands shake as she sinks to the floor, the cold tiles accommodating her weight. The bathroom hears the silent wail that erupts from her chest; the kind that breaks something open, something raw and weary of holding on.

It also listens with rapt attention to the boy who sings. Whose voice has been called an abomination. Who has been told, 'Your voice could wake the dead and make them beg you to stop singing.' And yet, the bathroom does not tell him to stop. It listens. It encases his voice, stretches it, smooths it, gives it a natural auto-tune. In here, he is not off-key. In here, his voice is sweet, rich, melodious. The bathroom does not care for pitch-perfect harmonies or whether he sounds like a choir of angels or a crying goat. It simply listens.

And then there is the girl who was told she is not beautiful enough, not thin enough, not fair enough, not fitting into the beauty standards of the world. It sees her pinch her skin, rummage through her makeup bags to cover up imperfections, sift through her collection of bleaching creams, turn sideways in the mirror, and measure her worth in inches and numbers. It has seen her regurgitate time and time again, emptying her bowels just to fit in. It hears her whisper the words that were thrown at her; the ones that stuck, the ones she has now made her own. Its eyes have seen, and it does not judge.

It holds the silent devastation of a man who walked into his home today, smiling. Who kissed his wife’s forehead, lifted his children onto his lap, and asked them questions about school. Who laughed joyfully and said, ‘Everything is fine,’ when his children asked about his work place. Because men do not cry. Because men do not break. But the moment the door clicks shut behind him, the moment he is alone in the bathroom, he remembers. He remembers the letter of dismissal, the four children who need school fees, the rent that will be due soon. His knees hit the floor. The sob escapes before he can stop it. He presses his forehead to the cold tiles. His shoulders shake. And the bathroom, as always, holds him.

It has held every secret, every whispered plea, every moment we fall apart. It has carried our nakedness, the kind unseen by the world, the kind we bare only to ourselves.

And still, it cradles us.

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PS: To the writers whose most powerful words are born in the bathroom, only to vanish the moment they step out, wait for the next bath. The bathroom will return them to you, but this time, be ready to catch them.

Thank you for reading, till we meet again🫂🤍