LISTEN TO ARTICLESynthesized Narration • 0:00 / 0:00

“Why did the math book look sad? It had too many problems!” My gaze drifted toward the group of friends near the door, squealing like they had just lived the best days of their lives. Their laughter spilled into the room, light and contagious. At the center stood a girl with the widest smile, her eyes sparkling as she told stories of her favorite escapades and shared her jokes. I knew her well. Everyone did. The sunshine of the group, they called her. The yellow—bright, bubbly, always ready to lift the mood when it sagged. She carried joy the way some people carried books—effortlessly, like it had always belonged to her. “Why did the computer go to the doctor? It caught a virus,” she said, and oh boy, everyone laughed. I always envy her positivity, but when my eyes lifted higher, I saw them—thin red lines hovering above her head. More than anyone else in the room. Hundreds, maybe thousands, tangled like invisible threads. They weren’t tied to anyone. They just hovered there, following her like a shadow that refused to leave. I often wonder what those red lines really mean. Do they mark the number of vacations you’ve taken? The gifts you’ve received? Or perhaps they stand for the friends you’ve made. But when I glance at the red lines belonging to the brightest person in the room, I start to think they might count something else entirely—maybe each one is a tally of the happy moments you’ve lived. I mean, she had the greatest number of red lines. I only had a few; others have many, but not as many as hers. Minutes later, the teacher entered, and the room quieted. Even during recitation, she is full of humor. She cracks jokes, the kind that made everyone—including me—laugh without thinking. She looked so alive. So untouchable. When the bell rang, I immediately left the school. But just as I’m about to cross the street, I saw her. That familiar face, that warm smile, that bundle of red lines that almost covers her. I waved at her, and she waved back, still wearing that smile. For a moment, it felt like nothing could touch her brightness. But then she turned away quickly, as if afraid I might see something behind it. She walked fast, weaving through the crowd, and I found myself following without really deciding to. The red lines trailed after her, shifting and flickering in the sunlight like restless shadows. And then, she stopped in a familiar white building. She entered, while I stood there, wondering what she was going to do inside a psychiatric hospital. Nevertheless, I continued following her. The halls were long and sterile, swallowing our footsteps. She walked and walked until her pace faltered. Her shoulders trembled. And then, without warning, she crumpled against the wall. Unconsciously, I took a step backward… and then, my eyes met her hollow gaze. Her eyes no longer sparkled; her lips no longer stretched into the smile I’d grown used to. Tears are sliding down her cheeks, quiet and heavy. And then, I looked up—only to see more red lines appear above her head. I had never known what they meant, not really. I’d thought they were markers of joy, streaks of her brightest moments. But as I watched, the lines multiplied with every sob, every shudder. That was when I understood. They weren’t memories of happiness. They were tallies—one for every pain she had to endure alone. One for every time she’d forced herself to wear a smile.A record of every moment she had to pretend she was okay. Even now, in her grief, the lines kept appearing—proof that even her breakdown had to be hidden behind a mask.