I eyed her calculatingly. There was something off about her today, something... less pure. She seemed fragile, carried herself as if every movement hurt. She sat down carefully behind her desk, instead of her usual position on top of it, and peered out at it her class. For the first few seconds that she looked at us, I could see the undiluted pain in her eyes, before she hid it behind layers of well-used barriers and false verve. But I could see behind the smile.
Putting on make-up, and putting up fronts. Faking smiles, as if you really cared. Keep laughing, though you know in you heart that you're lying. Hide when you're crying, go on living, as if you weren't dieing.
I handed in what I'd written to her just before class ended, and wondered what she would think of it. After everyone had left the classroom, we resumed where we had left of yesterday.
YOU ARE READING
Her
Short StorySome say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed. Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed. Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless, aching need. I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed. It's the heart afrai...
