An Afternoon Beneath the Mask
The new school had white walls and wide windows.
The air felt lighter there, and the sky seemed closer.
Yet within that brightness,
my own shadow appeared darker than ever.
In this new classroom, there were many who observed.
Before smiling, they studied another's expression;
before speaking, they measured the temperature of the air.
It reminded me of my own past—
a comfort that carried with it a strange tension.
Our homeroom teacher was a gentle person.
Yet that gentleness was supported
by eyes that constantly watched for others' reactions.
Behind those eyes lingered evaluation—
a presence those once under control can recognize instantly.
During lunch break, the teacher called out to me.
"What kind of activities did you do at your previous school?"
It was an ordinary question, yet my throat tightened.
If I said music, the sounds of those days
might begin to echo again.
"I didn't do much," I replied.
The teacher tilted their head slightly and smiled.
I couldn't tell whether that smile was kind—
or merely for the record.
After school, I looked at my reflection in the hallway mirror.
It wore an unfamiliar expression.
The corners of my mouth lifted slightly,
my eyes softened just enough—
a face for safety.
A mask to hide what I truly felt.
I didn't want to be liked,
only to exist as someone who caused no trouble.
Without emotions, peace lasted longer.
One day, a classmate said,
"Your smile feels so gentle."
At that moment, something cracked deep inside my chest.
It was meant as praise,
yet it sounded like something carving away at my heart.
A smile is not a weapon—it is a shield.
But if you hold it too long,
you forget where your real face begins.
Beneath the mask,
there is still a self who breathes.
And that quiet breath
is the only proof that I am still alive.