The mask she wore

There was a time when Liliana and I were inseparable. She was the quiet, artistic one, always doodling on the corners of her notebooks or staring off into the distance like she was trying to capture a moment the rest of us couldn’t see. She seemed… untouchable, like she didn’t need anything or anyone to feel whole.

I admired her for that.

She never talked about herself much, but I figured that was just who she was. Liliana didn’t like being the center of attention. She was reserved but not in a way that made her seem cold. I thought she was content with how things were.

Looking back now, I realize how little I really understood her.

We used to spend so much time together. Every afternoon after school, we’d sit at the park and talk about whatever came to mind. She made me laugh in ways no one else could, and I liked how easy it was to be around her. It felt natural.

But then life got busier. I started hanging out with other people, making new friends. It wasn’t like I was trying to leave her behind—I just thought she’d always be there, like she always had been.

At first, she seemed fine. She didn’t complain when I canceled plans or forgot to text her back. Liliana wasn’t the type to make a big deal out of things. But I remember the way her smile started to change. It was smaller, almost tired, like she was trying to hide something.

I didn’t think much of it at the time.

I should have.

There was a moment—one I can’t forget—when I saw her in the hallway. I waved and said hi, just like I would with anyone else. She smiled back, but there was something in her eyes, something I didn’t understand. I brushed it off and kept walking.

That’s what haunts me.

Because now, I know that smile wasn’t real.

Liliana started fading after that. She stopped coming to the park, stopped reaching out. I told myself she was probably busy or tired. I didn’t push because I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

But the truth is, I didn’t push because I didn’t want to deal with what I might find.

It wasn’t until much later that I started piecing things together. The way she always seemed to blend into the background, the way she’d mimic how people spoke or moved, like she was trying to fit in. I thought it was just her being adaptable, but now I wonder if it was something more.

Was she trying to be someone she wasn’t? Was she hiding behind a mask, even with me?

I think about her sometimes—sitting in her room, staring at the walls, feeling like she was falling apart. I think about all the times I could have asked if she was okay, but didn’t.

I don’t know if she blames me for walking away. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she was too busy blaming herself.

But I blame myself.

Because the truth is, I didn’t really see her. Not the way I should have.

And now, I don’t even know who she is anymore. Or maybe… I never did.