He Was Smiling, but Dying Inside

I was never special not by looks, not by talent, and definitely not by luck.
Just a regular guy, the kind people forget in group photos. The one who’s always “fine” when asked, even when everything inside is falling apart.

People around me said, You have everything food, clothes, a roof over your head. What could possibly be wrong?
And I would nod, pretending to agree. But deep down, I knew something was missing. Something big.
There was no peace. No sleep. No real joy. I was breathing, eating, existing… but I wasn’t really alive.

I didn’t know exactly when it started.
Maybe it was the day I stopped laughing from my heart.
Or the night I stayed up staring at the ceiling, my chest heavy for no reason.
Over time, everything just blurred. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And I kept slipping, slowly.

I’d be in a room full of people friends, noise, even music and still feel completely alone.
I’d laugh with others, nod in conversations, and say all the right things. But none of it felt real.
It was just noise.
Noise to cover the silence inside. The kind of silence that screams.

I tried to talk about it, once or twice.
But every time I opened up, people said the same thing:
Don’t think too much. Just stay busy. You’ll be fine.
So I stayed busy. I kept myself surrounded by tasks, distractions, noise.

But nothing worked.

It was like something inside me had cracked not loudly, but quietly, like a glass breaking in the next room.
I couldn’t see the pieces, but I felt them everywhere.

Sometimes I’d sit near the window and stare out. I’d ask myself quietly,
If I don’t wake up tomorrow… would anyone even care?
The question would echo in my head, over and over.
And every time, the answer felt like a soft, painful No.

Then one night, by pure chance, I opened an old message on my phone.
It was from a childhood friend I hadn’t spoken to in years.
He had written:
Man, you were always the one keeping everyone together. Never break. It would hurt.

Those words simple, honest hit me like a wave.
That night, I cried. Not because I was weak, but because for the first time in a long time… I felt seen.

The next morning, I did something I had never done before.
I looked up a psychologist.
My hands were shaking as I booked the appointment.
I felt embarrassed. Weak. Maybe even stupid.
But I went anyway.

And when I sat there, I finally said it out loud:
I feel like I have everything… but inside, I have nothing left.

The therapist didn’t laugh. She didn’t question me. She just said:
This happens more often than you think. You’re not weak. You’re human.

Those words changed something inside me.

No, I didn’t feel magically better.
Healing didn’t happen overnight.
But I started paying attention.
I cried when I needed to.
I stopped pretending all the time.
I wrote my thoughts down.
I gave myself permission to feel.
And I stopped judging myself for feeling broken.

Day by day, piece by piece, I began to gather the parts of myself I had lost.
I didn’t become someone new.
I just started becoming me again.

Even now, not every day is perfect.
There are still mornings when I feel the weight again.
Still nights when the silence comes back.
But now, I don’t run from it.
I sit with it. I breathe through it.
And I remind myself: this, too, will pass.

Now, when someone asks, Are you okay?
I don’t fake it anymore.
I say, I’m trying to be. And for now, that’s enough.

Check on the ones who always smile. They might be breaking inside. And never forget to check on yourself, too.

Check on the ones who always smile. They might be breaking inside. And never forget to check on yourself, too.

If we think for ourselves, people will think for us.

Thank you very much for reading!❤️