Every morning, Mira stood before the mirror and smiled.
It was the same smile she’d practiced for years gentle, polite, perfectly curved at the edges.
No one ever noticed the way her eyes didn’t join in.

At work, she was the cheerful one.
At home, she was the strong one.
In her friend group, she was the one who always listened, never broke, never cried.

The truth was, Mira had learned early that showing pain made people uncomfortable.
So, she built herself a mask one of calm, charm, and endless understanding.
At first, she wore it to survive.
Then, she wore it to fit in.
Eventually, she forgot it was a mask at all.

Years passed, and the mask fused with her skin.
When someone said, “You’re always so happy,”
She nodded, even though she couldn’t remember the last time she felt joy.
When someone asked, “How do you stay so strong?”
She smiled again, even though she was breaking quietly inside.

One night, alone in her room, she caught her reflection under the soft light of her bedside lamp.
The smile looked strange now, foreign.
She tried to frown, but her muscles resisted.
It hit her like thunder:
She had worn the mask so long, she had started calling it her face.

A tear slid down, cutting through the makeup, leaving a clean trail like a tiny wound of truth.
And for the first time in years, Mira let herself cry not behind the mask, but as herself.