The plastic usually hardens around 8:00 AM.
It starts in the bathroom mirror. I look at the gray, flat face staring back at me, and I begin the construction.
Concealer under the eyes to hide the insomnia. Blush on the cheeks to simulate blood flow. Mascara to open the eyes that just want to close.
But the most important part is the smile.
I practice it. I lift the corners of my mouth. I engage the muscles around my eyes because I read somewhere that a real smile reaches the eyes.
Pull. Lift. Hold.
It feels tight. It feels synthetic. By noon, my face aches from the effort of holding it in place. It feels like I am wearing a prosthetic, a rubber mask of a happy young woman glued over my own rotting features.
This is my life now. The Performance.
Mark doesn't notice the plastic.
He kisses my cheek and says, "You smell nice." He doesn't notice that the cheek is cold. He doesn't notice that when I laugh at his jokes, the sound comes from my throat, not my belly.
He is a good man. But he is a happy man.
Happy people have a blind spot. They cannot imagine a world without color, so when they look at me, they paint the colors in themselves. They project their own life onto my blank canvas.
"You seem better," he tells me over dinner one night. "Lighter."
"I feel lighter," I lie.
The lie slides out so easily now. It is smooth and polished.
"I'm glad," he says, taking a bite of his steak. "I missed you."
I look at him. I am sitting right across from him, but I am miles away. I am drifting in deep space, untethered, watching this scene on a monitor.
I miss me too, I think. But I say nothing. I just adjust the mask. I make sure the smile is straight.
My friends don't notice the plastic.
We go to brunch. I order mimosas. I complain about my boss. I nod when they talk about their weddings and their promotions.
I am the perfect supporting character. I say all the right lines.
"That's amazing!""He said what?""You look great in that dress."
Inside, I am screaming. Inside, the static is so loud I can barely hear them.
Does it matter? the static asks. Does any of this matter? You are just meat and electricity sitting in a chair. Eventually, you will stop.
I take a sip of the mimosa. It tastes like battery acid.
"You're so quiet today," Sarah says.
"Just tired," I say. The universal password. "Work is crazy."
"Oh, totally," she says, and moves on to the next topic.
They accept the mask because the mask is comfortable. The mask is easy. The reality—the weeping, hollow thing underneath—would ruin their brunch.
So I protect them from it.
Only my mother notices.
Mothers are the original creators. They knit us together in the dark. They know the stitching. They know when a seam is coming loose.
I go to visit on a Sunday.
The house smells like roast chicken and lemon polish. It is the smell of safety. But I am not safe. I am radioactive.
I am sitting at the kitchen table, watching the dust motes dance in the light. For a moment—just a second—I forget the Rule.
I forget to hold the muscles tight.
My face goes slack. The plastic cracks. The smile drops, and the deadness inside spills out through my eyes.
I am staring at the wall, but I am seeing nothing. I am just... empty. A haunted house with no ghosts, just dust.
"Honey?"
My mother's voice cuts through the fog.
I snap my head toward her. I try to reassemble the mask quickly, but I am too slow.
She is standing by the sink, a dish towel in her hand. She isn't looking at my smile. She is looking at my eyes.
And she looks terrified.
"Are you..." She hesitates. She takes a step toward me. "Are you happy?"
The question hangs in the air. It is heavy.
If I tell her the truth, it will destroy her. If I say, No, Mom, I am in agony. I am drowning on dry land, it will break her heart. She will blame herself. She will think she failed.
Rule 1: Do Not Be a Burden.
I force the plastic back into place. I weld it shut with panic.
"Of course I am," I say. I force a laugh. It sounds brittle, like breaking glass. "Why would you ask that?"
"I don't know," she whispers. She searches my face, looking for that glimpse of the void she just saw. "You just looked... lost. For a second there."
"I was just zoning out," I say. "Thinking about my to-do list."
"Oh." She breathes out. She wants to believe me. She needs to believe me. "Okay. Good."
She turns back to the sink. But her shoulders are tense.
She knows. Deep down, where the instincts live, she knows her daughter is fading. But she doesn't have the language for it.
That night, I go home to my empty apartment.
I lock the door.
I walk into the bathroom and turn on the light.
I let the mask fall.
My face collapses. The exhaustion hits me like a physical blow. My knees buckle, and I sit on the edge of the tub.
It takes so much energy.
It takes more calories to pretend to be happy than it does to run a marathon.
I touch my cheek. It feels cold.
The scariest part isn't the sadness anymore. The scariest part is that when I take the mask off, I don't know who is underneath it.
The girl who loved painting is gone. The girl who liked jazz is gone. The girl who wanted to travel to Paris is gone.
There is only the actress. And the actress is tired.
I look at the bottle of pills on the counter. The ones Dr. Aldis gave me. The ones that don't work.
I can't keep doing this, I whisper to the tiles.
I can't keep lying to them.
The mask is getting heavier every day. Soon, it will be too heavy to lift.
And when that happens... what will be left?
Nothing.
Just the silence. And the static.
I turn off the light.
I go to bed.
And for the thousandth time, I pray not to wake up.
But I do.
And the plastic is waiting on the nightstand, ready to be strapped on again.