Wet Hands, Dry Resolve

Washing hands

When he turned the faucet, water gushed out, splashing against the white ceramic sink. The familiar coldness touched his fingertips, instantly pulling his consciousness back to reality.

He lathered the soap, scrubbing his palms, between his fingers, and even the tips of his nails thoroughly. His face reflected in the mirror looked slightly stiff with tension. The dark circles under his eyes were proof that he had barely slept last night.

The act of washing felt like a ritual. He was repeating this action not so much to remove dirt, but to sever something. It might have been the event that happened this morning, or perhaps a regret he had been carrying for a long time.

He finished rinsing off the foam and wiped the moisture away with a towel. The faint scent of soap remaining on his palms brought a moment of relief.

However, as the water droplets evaporated and his skin became completely dry, that heavy emotion returned. No matter how much he washed, what was stuck to his heart would not come off.

He whispered softly to himself in the mirror.

"This will be fine."

Then, he quietly left the washroom. Whether that step would be the one for him to redo everything, or perhaps to accept everything, no one knew yet. All that was certain was that his wet palms were waiting for his next move.