The Listener

I am an expert at faking smiles. 

It’s what I’ve always done, always thinking about other people and other people’s feelings and their problems. Why bother them with whatever useless emotion I’m feeling?

He was the only one I never tried to hide with. He listened to me: not to other people, no, they bored him. But I was this hurt person and I was his person. It felt good to be heard. I could talk and talk and not worry about judgement or boredom. Of course, I listened in return. But that’s what I do. 

I’m a listener.

I listened to him all the way through his friendship with her, the ups and downs, the fights and the birthday surprises. And I listened as he told me we were too different, that he couldn’t hurt me or hide it from me anymore. I listened all the way to the door, and beyond.

I listened when he told me he’d moved on, when my traitorous heart was still hoping against hope that things would go back to the way they were. I listened when he had fights with his new girlfriend and he needed to vent, the ache in my heart not fading but growing sharper, it seemed, with time.

And I began faking smiles again.