People
often tell me, “You’ve such a good smile, you’re always in such a good mood”, and
I just smile. What they don’t know is that my brightness is often a boundary. I
laugh easily, I keep things light, I stay pleasant, not because I’m carefree,
but because I don’t trust anyone with my depth. Happiness, in those moments, is
a polite distance.
The
truth is, only a very small circle gets the raw version of me. The tired one.
The quiet one. The one who doesn’t know how to perform joy on demand. If you’ve
never seen me fall apart, it’s not because I don’t, it’s because I don’t
feel safe enough to let you see it. And that’s not an insult. It’s just how
trust works. Real closeness isn’t pretty. It doesn’t look polished or put-together.
It looks like sitting in silence, looking undone, being hungry in every sense
of the word, and not needing to explain yourself. It’s allowed to exist
without having to entertain, reassure or hold it all together.
Trust
isn’t constant smiling. It isn’t glowing energy or good vibes only. Trust is
knowing you can be quiet, heavy, messy and still be wanted. So, if you only
ever see me cheerful, laughing and composed, understand this, that’s
distance, carefully dressed up as kindness.