You asked if I was okay.
And I smiled.
Not because I was fine, but because I’ve mastered the craft of looking convincing. There was a knot in my chest so tight it could’ve choked me, but instead, I nodded and asked about your day. You didn’t press. I didn’t confess. And the moment passed—like they always do.
The truth is, I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been for a while.
But there’s a language some of us never learned to speak. Not because we’re mute, but because somewhere along the way, we were taught to swallow the sentences that start with “I’m not alright.” There’s no room for that kind of softness when you’re the one others come to for strength. There’s no script for the strong unraveling in public.
So I kept talking about things that didn’t matter. I filled the air with distractions, compliments, questions—anything to avoid the truth curling up inside my throat, begging for a voice.
Because saying “I’m not okay” would mean admitting I needed something. It would mean taking off the armor. It would mean you might see the parts of me I’ve kept hidden even from myself. And what if you didn’t know what to do with that? What if you looked at me differently? What if you left?
So instead, I smiled.
And you believed me.
And that is how it happens—every time.