She wears her pain as a cheery disposition, uses her hurt like an armor of pretense. I am happy and strong, she projects. Most of her friends don’t notice her struggle. They are busy with the loud and insistent inner monologues reminding them of their own insecurities.

There are moments when her pain is too acute, when her sharp loneliness touches her core in a cold, nauseous chill. If this happens in public, she finds refuge in a soda sip or shaky bathroom break. Sometimes she stares out the window and counts leaves, or sidewalk squares.

But she more often has such moments in private, when her mind slackens its grip on her portrayal and constricts her heart instead. Alone, her movements slow and her eyes close. In the loud blackness of her thoughts, she can’t decide whether she would rather open her eyes to a different world, or never open them again.

She finds herself in her quiet office, stark in its sterility and white fluorescent light. I am happy and strong, she projects, waving to a coworker on her way to refill her coffee mug. Or maybe I will be soon.

-gj