Behind the Silent Smile

It was always her smile that caught people’s attention. Soft, serene, almost haunting—like a sunset that knows night is coming. Areeba was the kind of woman who carried storms in her eyes but never let a drop fall. Her colleagues at the school adored her, the children adored her more. Yet no one ever knew who she was beyond the walls of that classroom.

Eve

ry morning, she walked through the gates of Darwish Public School at exactly 7:55 a.m., in a pale blue shalwar kameez and a black shawl draped perfectly across her shoulders. Her hair was always tied back, her books always clutched to her chest, and that same gentle smile painted across her lips.

To most, she was a mystery worth respecting but not disturbing.

But for Hamza, the new Urdu teacher, mystery begged to be understood.

He had noticed her the moment he joined the staff, three weeks ago. It wasn’t just her beauty; it was the contrast. Her eyes held sadness too heavy for someone who smiled so often. It was a contradiction he couldn’t ignore.

“Miss Areeba,” he said one morning as they stood by the faculty notice board. “Do you always smile like that?”

She turned to him, surprised, but her smile didn’t fade. “Like what?”

“Like you're holding something back.”

There was a pause. Her eyes flickered with something unreadable.

“And what do you think I’m holding back, Sir Hamza?” she asked, voice calm but layered.

“A story, maybe. Or a war.”

She gave a faint laugh—more breath than sound. “And if I am, is it your place to ask?”

He nodded respectfully, recognizing her boundary. “Maybe not. But sometimes, it helps to let someone read the story you’ve been hiding.”

That night, as Areeba sat in her small apartment, she thought about his words. A story. She hadn’t told hers in years—not since the day her world fell apart.

She had once been a different woman. A university student with dreams of becoming a poet, of performing on stages and seeing her name in literary journals. She had been engaged to Adeel, a soft-spoken artist who painted her into every one of his canvases. Life had seemed full, promising.

Until one rainy December night, when she received the call.

A drunk driver. Adeel gone on the spot. His paintings ruined in the fire that followed. Her poems—once vibrant—turned cold. After his death, she stopped writing, stopped dreaming. Her world collapsed into silence.

But she had learned to smile. It was the only way to keep people from asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

The next morning, Areeba left her apartment earlier than usual. She walked to the old tea shop where Adeel used to take her every Sunday. The shopkeeper, an old man with cloudy eyes, recognized her at once.

“You still come,” he said. “Even after all these years.”

“Only when I need to remember,” she replied.

Back at school, she passed Hamza in the hallway. Their eyes met, and she nodded—not with her usual practiced smile, but with a flicker of honesty.

He noticed the difference.

Over the next few weeks, they began speaking more often. Conversations over lunch turned into shared walks in the garden behind the school. She found herself laughing—really laughing—for the first time in years. He never pressed her for the past. And in return, she began to open small windows into her world.

One cloudy afternoon, as they sat under the peepal tree near the back gate, she handed him an old notebook.

“These are my poems,” she said. “From before.”

He turned the fragile pages, each one filled with verses of love, pain, and longing.

“They’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“They were for someone who no longer exists.”

He looked up. “And the one who wrote them—does she still exist?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she smiled—genuinely this time. No shield. No silence. Just warmth.

In the days that followed, Hamza encouraged her to write again. Slowly, cautiously, she began to put words on paper. Not for publication, not for praise—but for herself.

Months passed. Seasons changed. Her smile, once a mask, became a window. She still carried her sorrow, but now it walked beside her—not hidden beneath her smile, but held gently in her hands.

And the world noticed.

The children saw a brighter Areeba. The staff admired her more than ever. And Hamza—he watched her reclaim herself, word by word.

Years later, long after their story had found its own quiet beginning, Areeba stood on a small stage at a local poetry gathering. Her voice trembled only slightly as she read:

"Behind every silent smile,

A voice waits to be heard.

Not to cry, not to scream,

But simply to be understood."

The audience applauded. But more importantly, she felt free.

For the first time, Areeba wasn’t just hiding behind her smile.

She was living through it.