I've learned how to smile again.
Just enough.
Not too wide.
Not too long.
Just enough to make them stop asking if I'm okay.
At school, I raise my hand in class.
Not because I want to answer.
But because it makes the counselor nod.
Makes the teacher smile.
Like I'm making "progress."
At home, I help with dishes.
I say "thank you."
I hug my mom when she reaches for me.
But I flinch.
Still.
Every time.
In therapy, I talk.
Softly.
Measured.
Like reading a script.
I say things like:
"I'm adjusting.""I feel better.""I know it wasn't my fault."
All the right words.
All the wrong feelings.
At night, I sit alone.
Lucas sits beside me.
Invisible, but closer than anyone.
He claps sometimes.
Sarcastic.
"Bravo. Well-rehearsed."
"Academy Award goes to: The Boy Who Lied So Well."
I tell him to shut up.
He doesn't.
He leans in and whispers:
"They don't love you. They love the mask."
"Take it off. See what happens."
Sometimes, I believe him.
Sometimes, I want to test it.
Tell the truth.
Scream.
Break something.
But I don't.
Because I'm afraid he's right.
I write in my journal:
"If I show them who I am now… will they still keep me?"
"Or will they return me like a broken toy?"
Lucas writes back in darker ink:
"You're not broken. You're replaced."
I've started avoiding mirrors again.
Because when I look too long…
I see him behind me.
Smiling.
Tilting his head.
Wearing my face.
No one else sees him.
Because I'm careful.
I put on the right clothes.
Use the right voice.
Walk the right way.
But inside?
I'm still barefoot on wooden floors.
Still counting cracks on the ceiling.
Still waiting for the door to open — or close forever.
This is the mask I wear.
Not for me.
For them.
Because if I take it off…
I'm not sure what they'll see.