The Weight Behind the Smile

The room was dimly lit, the air heavy with unspoken words. She sat across from me, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the table. I couldn’t take my eyes off her smile—so radiant, yet strangely fragile.

“Trying to understand why I’m the only one alive who sees how beautiful you smile,” I said, breaking the silence.

She looked up, startled, her lips twitching as if trying to decide whether to laugh or cry. “Smiles could be a lie,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded, unsure of how to navigate the minefield of emotions between us. “So why are you trying to hide the pictures that ruined that smile?”

Her gaze dropped, and I saw her walls go up, but not before a flicker of pain flashed in her eyes. “Because they’re not just pictures,” she said, her tone sharper now. “They’re memories. Ones I can’t erase, no matter how much I want to.”

She leaned back, exhaling deeply. “I journey through life alone with the memory of the cradle,” she continued, her words laced with melancholy. “Guess I miss my mom and home. And that’s a riddle that will remain unsolved.”

The weight of her confession settled in the room, thick and suffocating. “Who understands a problem that is unvoiced?” I asked, more to myself than to her.

She looked at me, her eyes piercing. “But you hear me,” she said, her voice steady. “So loud, but silently. I feel you.”

Her words struck a chord deep within me. It was as if our hearts were beating in sync, each thud echoing the pain of stories untold. “Your heart beats me heavy till my eardrums adhere to other stories of people who have been through what you went through,” I said. “My apologies because I’m sure it’s still a part of you.”

Her lips curled into a bitter smile. “It is,” she admitted. “How they tore me, inserted in me against my will things that scarred me.”

The room felt colder, her words carving invisible scars into the air. “I see your wound, your struggle,” I said gently. “And all this put together focuses my eyes to see through you. I guess that’s why I see that smile.”

She laughed bitterly. “When I cry, I smile,” she said. “It’s all I’ve got left—a mask that keeps the world at bay.”

“You have quite aesthetic varieties,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Not for politics, but apathy—for the etymology of social constructions.”

Her eyes narrowed, but there was curiosity there. “No one should judge you when you say your angel is a she,” I continued.

Her face darkened. “Because he scares me,” she said. “Deprives me the power to be the She. They call me a social black sheep because I don’t fit into their moral transcript imprinted in their hearts.”

“I am you, you are me,” I said, my voice firm. “It’s hard for me not to feel you because we are equal beings. If I can king, then you can king.”

Her eyes softened, the defensive edge fading. “Like flowers can be for boys,” she said, a hint of wonder in her voice. “And the liberty to favor pink.”

“But no,” I said, finishing her thought. “That’s another sin.”

Her gaze held mine, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. “And I see now,” I said softly. “The things that stole your smile are these fugly things that overflow your Nile.”

She leaned forward, her expression unreadable. “So talk to me,” I pleaded. “I’m done being vile. To your ways, I’m at peace. So you can call me a feminist.”

Her smile returned, tentative but real this time. “Then maybe,” she said, “I can learn to smile for real, too.”