She always smiled like she was about to cry, and every time I saw her lips stretch halfheartedly and her eyes soften, and all I wanted to know was why, I wanted to know who, I wanted to know what, I wanted to know how she got that way. Her smile was the epitome of the phrase "smile, the worst is yet to come" and with every fiber of my being I wanted to know why. It became my mission to figure her out. She was the greatest mystery.
And then one day I saw her cry. I saw the facade break, I saw the smile crumble as the well of tears broke and stream silently down her face. And then I didn't care why, who, what, or how, suddenly all I cared was that it never had to happen again. She was still a mystery, but it didn't matter any more. I didn't need to figure her out to figure out that finding out her past wouldn't fix anything. The only thing I could do for her, the only way to ease that secret pain was to make sure I never forced her lips to stretch halfheartedly, to make sure I never forced her eyes to soften behind the tears. My mission was no longer to figure her out, my mission was to see her smile with sincerity, to never see her eyes betray what her mouth tried so desperately to hide.
