The mask I wore (Liliana's POV)
✒The Mask I Wore✒ (Liliana's POV)
In the quiet of my small town, the world felt like it moved in soft, predictable rhythms. The sun rose, the streets hummed, and people passed by with their easy smiles. I walked among them, blending in so perfectly it was almost like I didn’t exist.
But I was there—crafting my mask every morning, painting myself into the version of me I thought they wanted to see. I wore a nonchalant, tired expression, the kind of face people didn’t bother looking too deeply into. It worked. It always worked.
I had a friend once who made me feel like I didn’t need the mask. Her laughter could fill any silence, her presence like a warm light in the middle of a storm. We talked for hours, imagined a world that wasn’t so heavy. Around her, I felt almost happy. Almost.
But even with her, I could never say the truth out loud.
I wanted to tell her about the nights I spent crying into my pillow, about the weight of my thoughts that never seemed to lift. I wanted to explain how exhausting it was to pretend, to shift and mold myself depending on who I was with, just so I wouldn’t be judged. But every time I tried, the words stopped in my throat, and I swallowed them back down.
What if she didn’t understand? What if she left?
So, I stayed silent.
Over time, things changed. She started spending more time with other people, her laughter echoing in spaces where I no longer stood. I watched from the edges as she smiled with them, the way she used to smile with me.
I told myself it was okay. People drift apart, right? It’s normal. But it didn’t stop the ache in my chest every time I saw her walk past me without stopping, her focus somewhere else, on someone else.
One day, she greeted me in the hallway—a simple, polite “hi.” That was it. No warmth, no pause, no recognition of the weight I carried. She was gone before I could even respond.
I felt myself cracking.
That night, I sat in my room, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the person looking back at me. Who was she? Was she the quiet, tired girl everyone saw? Was she the mimic who copied how others walked, talked, and laughed just to fit in? Or was she the scared little girl crying alone at night?
“I’m like a robot,” I whispered to the mirror. “I do what people want, say what they want to hear. I’ve programmed myself to be what they expect. And now… now I don’t know who I am.”
The tears came, slow at first, then faster, harder, until I couldn’t breathe. I wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to hold myself together as the cracks widened.
I wanted to scream at her—to tell her how much it hurt to feel forgotten. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Because the truth is, I wasn’t just afraid of her forgetting me. I was afraid of her knowing me.
And so, I stayed invisible. Hidden behind my mask.