Breathing through the smile

"Do I regret that I met her?" If someone asked me this, I don't think I'd know how to answer right away. How do you regret the person who showed you what it feels like to be understood?How do you regret the light that found you in a life that had always been dark? Maybe the real question isn't whether I regret meeting her.Maybe it's whether I truly knew who she was. I've always been quiet, present, but unnoticed. In a family full of voices, mine was the softest. I learned early that silence was easier than being heard. As time went on, loneliness stopped visiting.It moved in. While others saw possibilities, I saw reasons to stop. While playing safe, I carried a sadness I couldn't name. Then I met her. It was in college. We were in the same group, four in a group. She was the leader. While everyone threw out ideas, I listened. I answered in nods. It had always been my stance. She was the opposite. Always outspoken. Cheerful. The kind of person who walked into a room and the room would light up. Everyone knew her.She knew everyone. And somehow, she noticed me. She messaged me first. "Hey, no pressure. Just send it when you can, okay?" It was small, but it was kind. One message became many. We talked about school, our families, music, the things that kept us awake long after midnight. Slowly, we started learning each other. She became the person who could pull me out of my silence, while I became the person she didn't have to perform happiness for. The first time I realized that was after class. Everyone had gone home. She was sitting alone outside the lecture hall, staring at nothing. "You okay?" I asked. She smiled automatically. "The usual smile?" I teased. She looked at me for a second... Then the smile disappeared. "I get tired sometimes," she whispered. "Everyone expects me to be the happy one." We didn't talk after that. We just sat there. For the first time... She didn't have to pretend. But there was still something I didn't understand. Everyone saw her smile. Everyone saw her happiness. One afternoon, I took her to my favorite spot behind our department. We climbed three flights of stairs. She laughed when we reached the top, shrugging off my joke. Then quietly leaned against the wall, catching her breath. "You alright?" I asked. "I'm fine," she smiled. "I just need a second." Another day she searched through her bag and sighed. "I forgot something." "What?" I asked. She looked through her bag one last time and closed it. "I'll be fine." I believed her. We laughed it off. I never thought about it again. One day I looked at her and said, "You always lie when you smile." She smiled anyway. "Because if I stopped smiling... someone would ask why." She paused to catch her breath. Then forced another smile. At the time, I thought she was just hiding feelings. I didn't know she was hiding battles. We made lots of memories. Late-night tutorials. Snacks before exams. "You got this," she'd say, tapping her pen against the table. "I got you," I'd answer, quieter. My darkness and her brightness balanced each other. She taught me how to stay in the light, and how to feel it. I taught her that silence didn't always have to be lonely. It has its perks. I never realized that the person helping me escape my loneliness was fighting her own. Then she was gone. A severe asthma attack took her. It didn't make sense at first. Asthma? My mind went back to the stairs. The moments she stopped to catch her breath. The quiet sigh as she searched through her bag. The "I'll be fine." She was used to saying. I believed her. The hints I ignored. The moments I laughed with her... when I should have been paying attention. Six months later, I still talk to her sometimes. Not because I don't know she's gone. But because some people don't become memories. They become part of you. I remember her laugh. Her encouragement. The way she made everyone feel important. And now I see the things I missed. She remembered to make everyone smile. But who remembered to make sure she could breathe? Everyone noticed when she was happy. But who noticed when she was struggling? We judge people by what they show us. We see the smile... not the pain behind it. We hear the laughter... not the breath between it. We see the silence... not the war inside it. So... Do I regret meeting her? No. I could never regret her. She was the first person who made me feel seen. The first person who made my loneliness feel lighter. The first person who showed me life could be different. I only regret that I memorized her smile... and not enough time learning the pain she was hiding behind it. Now I tap my pen against the table. For a second... it sounds like her. And for one impossible moment... I look up, expecting to hear her say, "You got this." But the silence remained.<img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/1000442336.jpg"/>

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