Behind the smile

 My bedroom knows me better than anyone. It's the only place I allow myself to come undone. No pretenses. No tough face. Just me, a quiet ceiling, and thoughts that refuse to shut up. Sometimes I cry — quietly, into my pillow. Other times, I simply sit. No music. No distractions. Just. quiet. It's interesting how the world perceives me. They call me inspiring. Strong. The one who “has it all together.” The one who others look up to. The role model. The motivator. The achiever. They see my smile and assume it’s effortless. But no one sees how heavy it feels sometimes — how it digs into my cheeks when I’ve spent the night wiping tears off them. They notice my outcomes, not the breakdowns leading up to exams. They notice my vigor in practice, not the nights my body was too exhausted to move but I forced myself anyway. What they don't realize is, preceding every success, there's a version of me sitting right here. On this bed. On this floor. Sometimes gasping for air. Sometimes having no idea why I feel so… empty. I battle with my own mind in this room. I relive conversations, overanalyze texts, question if I'm good enough, if I'm doing enough. And then, somehow, I stand up. I glance in the mirror. I set my face. Because that smile? That smile keeps my friends going. That smile gives younger kids hope. That smile tells the world I'm okay — even when I'm not. And perhaps that's my superpower. Not the medals. Not the speeches. But the quiet strength it takes to fall apart alone, and still get up the next day. Because I know someone, somewhere, needs that version of me. Even if I need someone too.