“Who are you?”
The question hits you like a slap. Why are they asking you this? Don’t they already know? You’ve been talking together for hours now.
“I am Sofia.”
They ask again. “Yes, Sofia, but who are you?”
You try to relax into the simple answer for this simple question. “I cook for the church. I go there every morning to prepare food for the men who pass through, endlessly. Men who are looking for something better.”
“We know about the men. We want to know about you Sofia. Who are you?”
Perhaps relaxing was a mistake. Something that you’ve held, frigid, for a long time. A hard, protective coating. It begins to crack and to melt. The crack sounds like a sob. The melt looks like tears.
You cannot speak.
“Who are you, Sofia?”
You smile. You are embarrassed to cry in front of this stranger. You are embarrassed that this stranger has opened you up so easily. You are ashamed that this stranger is the first one who ever tried to do that.
“I don’t understand.” And though you will not answer the stranger now, their question will continue to echo inside of you, causing an avalanche that will not be held back.