You hated your hands. Always clammy, like they couldn’t decide whether to be sweaty or dry. People avoided holding them, and you couldn’t blame them.

Your eyes? Plain. Just a deep brown, nothing striking, nothing worth a second glance.

Your cheeks? The worst. They gave you away every time—flushing red at the smallest embarrassment, turning you into a walking tomato before you could stop it.

But the thing you hated most? Your smile. Your laugh.

You used to love them. Until people started commenting. Why do you laugh like that? Your teeth are kinda crooked. You smile too much. So, you stopped. You learned to fake it—to smile with your lips pressed together, to laugh in a way that didn’t sound too much.

And no one noticed.

Except Chris.

He was always watching—picking up on things you thought were invisible. The way you hesitated before laughing, the way you covered your mouth when you smiled, the way you wiped your hands on your jeans before anyone could touch them.

He never said anything. Not until today.

You were sitting beside him, leaning against the school lockers, when he spoke.

"You know you do that, right?"

You glanced at him. Do what?

"You fake it." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "Your smile. Your laugh. It’s not real."

Your stomach dropped. Instinct kicked in—you forced out a laugh, fidgeted with your sleeves, tried to play it off.

"I don’t—"

"You do." His eyes held yours, steady, unwavering. "And you don’t have to. Not with me."

The air between you felt heavier. Like he had peeled back a layer of you no one else had ever bothered to see.

You wanted to argue, to deny it. But deep down, you knew he was right.