The Masks

The moment I approach the door, the masks hover, circling like lazy moths around the warmth of a light bulb. I’ve worn each face before. The Confident Stranger with the serene smile. The Quiet Thinker, who nods instead of speaks, and The Charming Ghost, who laughs at the right moment and vanishes before the check arrives.

They wait for me to choose, as they always do. Each promises safety, a way to survive the small talk and the shallow questions.

Tonight, none of them fit. My skin feels wrong, stretched thin by all the faces I’ve borrowed and forgotten to return. Let them hover. Let them ache for fresh air. The air feels colder without their orbit, but cleaner too, like the first breath after a long fever.

A couple walks past, arm in arm, their eyes politely sliding off me the way people look at storefronts they can’t afford. I feel the weight of the world’s gaze tightening like a noose—I should have picked The Talker. Words flow sweet from his lips, like bait in a trap, but that face is locked away with the others.

I nod to these strangers, unable to greet them. Instead, I walk away, while the pavement under my shoes laughs. It knows who I am.

Footsteps echo behind me, and a hand grabs my shoulder. I turn and see through her mask. She’s wearing The Confident One, but her hand trembles.

Her eyes flicker behind the mask’s smooth veneer, a shimmer of fear and recognition. The Confident One smiles for her, but I can see the strain—tiny cracks spreading like ice crystals on a windowpane.

“You forgot yours,” she says, the voice too brittle for the words.

“I’m done with them.”

My reply hangs between us, heavier than it should be. For a moment, she looks ready to laugh—to dismiss me, to retreat behind her mask’s perfect grin. But her hand stays on my shoulder. Her fingers shaking harder now.

Her laugh falters, as if the air itself is listening—judging. Then, she does something brave and lifts her hand to her face and peels The Confident One away.

Underneath is something raw and unguarded—a face I almost recognize, not from memory, but from possibility.

Her eyes flicker behind a genuine smile.

Neither of us speaks until the mask in her hand screams.

She grips it tight, throttling its spirit until it dies—turning to ash that drifts from her palm.

For the first time, we see each other. Two strangers on the same path.