I remember the smile
There was this one afternoon, I don’t even remember the date, but I remember the smile.
I had just run into someone I used to know well, someone who occupied a significant space in my life. When they walked up to me wearing their usual mask of friendliness, I instinctively responded the way I always had: I smiled. It was a reflex. A gesture I had perfected over the years. Polite. Measured. Safe.
The kind of smile you give when you’re trying to keep the peace, even if something inside you is quietly cringing.
The kind of smile that lets the moment pass without conflict, even though your body tightens with the effort of holding back the truth.
It wasn’t entirely fake. But it wasn’t honest either. It was a performance, one I had learned to master for the sake of appearances, to avoid discomfort, to stay agreeable, to be the version of me others expected.
And the moment it happened, as the smile faded from my face, a deeper voice inside me stirred, and it was calm. Firm. Clear.
“We don’t do that anymore.”
This person had witnessed things. Shared laughs and exchanged “we’ll always be friends” looks.
Someone whose silence had grown so loud over the years, it eventually became the only thing I could hear when I thought of them. And yet, when they saw me, they smiled.
They approached with that familiar expression, that practiced blend of warmth and casual indifference, like we hadn’t spent the last few years slowly slipping out of each other’s orbit.
It's like they hadn’t seen me unravel and rebuild myself and chose not to reach out. It is like they hadn’t noticed my voice shifting, my words changing, my smile softening into something quieter and more careful.
And just like I had done so many times before, I smiled back, not because I meant it, but because my body hadn’t yet caught up with the truth my soul already knew.
I had been conditioned, like so many women I know, to prioritize comfort, even when I was the one quietly grieving the disconnection. Even when my body had already moved on, my heart hadn’t quite caught up. What they didn’t realize, what most people like that never do, is that I had given them every chance.
I had left subtle openings. I had paused long enough in conversations to invite them back in. I had celebrated their wins from afar, mourned their losses in silence, and hoped, naively, that maybe they’d one day ask me how I was really doing, without needing a public reason to care. They never did.
So when they smiled at me that day with that hollow friendliness, what they were doing was pretending the distance didn’t exist. Pretending they hadn’t participated in its creation. Pretending they could waltz back in as if the quiet between us hadn’t grown roots.
And my smile? It wasn’t an invitation. It was closure. It was the final bow in a play I no longer audition for. Not because I’m bitter or angry. But because I’ve finally understood that not everyone is meant to stay.
Some people are just there to teach you the shape of your own boundaries by testing every edge of them until you finally reinforce the walls with grace, not guilt. And I smile now, not to mend what was broken, but to acknowledge what is.
There is so much peace in that.
Why Am I Sharing This?
I did not write this just to retell a memory. I wrote it because I know how many people are still smiling through rooms that don't feel safe. And I want you to know - you are not crazy for feeling off. You are wise for noticing.
I’m sharing this because I know I’m not the only one who has smiled out of habit. Not the only one who’s handed out second chances in silence, hoping someone would notice the effort it takes just to stay kind when your heart is quietly exhausted.
I’m writing this for the ones who keep replaying old friendships like a song they used to love, wondering if maybe the lyrics changed or if they just finally started paying attention.
I’m writing this for the people pleasers and shape-shifters and loyal hearts who’ve quietly contorted themselves for years to keep connections alive that were never mutual. I see you.
And I want you to know: it doesn’t make you cold to stop pretending. It doesn’t make you rude to grow past the performance. You can love someone, honor what they meant to you, and still choose to close the door. You can decide, one quiet day, that your energy is sacred, and that anything built on guilt, obligation, or convenience simply isn’t allowed anymore.
I write so people can see themselves, NOT as broken. But as someone who finally deserves their own truth. Even if it starts with just one honest moment.
Healing doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it just… lets go.