I keep the smile in place.
It's easy. I've been doing it for years—centuries, technically, if you count my existence before this mortal form.
Smiling is what I do. It's who I am. The Goddess of Happiness doesn't get to have bad days or heavy thoughts or moments where the weight of always, always being bright and cheerful feels like it might crush her completely.
So I smile.
And no one ever questions it.
"Just wanted to check in on you guys," I say, keeping my voice light and warm. "It's been a while."
Cecil is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. There's something in his eyes—a sharpness, an awareness—that makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
He knows.
Or at least, he suspects.
I push the thought away and focus on Keith, who's still standing near the doorway looking pleasantly surprised but also slightly confused.
"You could have texted," Keith says, not unkindly. "Not that we're not happy to see you! Just, you know, unexpected."
"I know, I know." I wave a hand dismissively, channeling every ounce of casual energy I can manage. "I was in the neighborhood and thought, why not drop by? See how everyone's doing?"
Dylan is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking my every movement.
He knows too.
Or suspects.
Gods, I'm bad at this.
No—that's not true. I'm good at this. I've perfected the art of hiding behind brightness for longer than most of these mortals have been alive.
But something about this apartment, these three people, makes the mask feel heavier than usual.
"How are you guys?" I ask, redirecting before anyone can press further. "Keith, you look like you just woke up."
Keith runs a hand through his disaster of hair, looking sheepish. "Yeah, rough morning. But we're good. We're—" He glances at Cecil and Dylan. "We're really good, actually."
There's something in the way he says it—something warm and genuine and a little bit fragile—that makes my chest ache.
They have each other.
All three of them, somehow figuring out how to hold each other's broken pieces carefully.
And I'm standing here in their kitchen, smiling like everything's fine, when the truth is—
"That's great," I say brightly. "I'm really happy for you guys."
I am. I genuinely am.
That's the worst part.
I can feel happiness—other people's happiness—like it's a tangible thing. It's part of being who I am, what I am. And right now, in this apartment, there's so much of it. Tentative and new and fragile, yes, but real.
Which makes the emptiness in my own chest feel that much more obvious by contrast.
Cecil is still watching me.
I need to get out from under that gaze before he sees too much.
"So," I say, pulling out my phone with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. "I actually have a favor to ask. It's totally fine if you say no, I just thought I'd—"
"What is it?" Dylan asks, his tone careful.
I pull up my messages and turn the phone so they can see. "My roommate went out of town for a few days. Left this morning." I scroll to show the conversation—her texts about the conference, the trip, when she'll be back. "And I know this sounds silly, but I really don't like being alone in the apartment. It's too quiet and I get in my head and—"
I'm rambling. Gods, I'm rambling.
Stop. Breathe. Smile.
"Anyway," I continue, forcing my voice back to something approximating normal, "I was wondering if maybe I could crash here for a couple nights? Just until she gets back? I can sleep on the couch, I won't be in the way, I promise."
The words come out in a rush—too fast, too eager, too desperate.
Pull it back. You're supposed to be breezy. Casual. Not this.
Keith and Dylan exchange a glance.
Cecil is still watching me with those too-knowing eyes.
"Of course you can stay," Keith says immediately. "You don't even have to ask."
Relief floods through me so intensely I almost lose my grip on the smile.
Almost.
"Really? You're sure?"
"Positive." Dylan nods. "We've got the space. And honestly, it'll be nice to have you around."
"Thank you." I clutch my phone a little tighter than necessary. "Seriously, thank you so much. I know it's a weird request—"
"It's not weird," Cecil says quietly.
I look at him.
He's still watching me with that careful, assessing expression, but there's something else there now too. Something that looks almost like... understanding?
"Not wanting to be alone isn't weird," he continues, his voice steady. "It's—" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "It's actually really brave to admit."
My smile falters for just a fraction of a second.
Just long enough for the mask to slip.
Just long enough for something true to show through.
Then I catch it, pull it back into place, and laugh. "Well, I don't know about brave, but I appreciate the validation!"
The brightness in my voice sounds false even to my own ears.
But no one calls me on it.
Keith claps his hands together. "Okay! So, breakfast first, then we'll help you get settled. Cecil was just about to make eggs—"
"I can help!" I interject quickly. Too quickly. "I'm actually a pretty decent cook."
"See?" Keith gestures at me dramatically. "Another person who can cook. I'm being attacked on all sides."
Dylan snorts. "You're not being attacked, you're just being overdramatic."
"It's a gift."
The banter continues, light and easy, and I let myself get swept up in it. Let the familiar rhythm of other people's joy wash over me, fill the spaces where my own should be.
This is what I do.
This is what I'm good at.
Being present for other people's happiness while carefully, meticulously, hiding the fact that I can't quite access my own.
I move to the counter beside Cecil, who hands me a whisk without comment.
We work in companionable silence for a moment—him cracking eggs, me whisking, the morning light warm on our faces.
"Thank you," I say quietly, so only he can hear. "For letting me stay."
Cecil glances at me, and for just a second, the careful assessment in his eyes softens into something gentler.
"You don't have to thank us," he says simply. "We're happy to have you."
The words are kind.
The truth behind them—that they genuinely mean it, that I'm wanted here even if only for a few days—should make me feel warm.
Should make me feel *happy*, which is literally my entire purpose for existing.
Instead, all I feel is the weight of the smile I'm still holding in place.
And the quiet, persistent question that's been following me for longer than I want to admit:
If the Goddess of Happiness can't even feel happy herself, what does that make her?
I push the thought away and focus on whisking eggs with precise, practiced efficiency.
---
Breakfast is chaotic in the best way.
Keith sets the table with mismatched enthusiasm—plates slightly askew, forks not quite aligned, but clearly trying his best. Dylan handles the bacon with practiced efficiency, each piece perfectly crispy. Cecil plates the eggs with the kind of precision that speaks to years of needing control over something, anything.
Keith insists on making toast.
This turns out to be a mistake.
"Keith, that's smoking," Dylan observes calmly from his position at the stove.
"It's fine, it's just—oh shit—"
Keith yanks the toast out with more force than necessary, sending one piece flying across the counter. The remaining piece is charcoal black on one side.
"I told you I can't cook," Keith says defensively, glaring at the burnt toast like it personally offended him.
I can't help it—I laugh. Real and genuine and completely unguarded for just a moment.
Keith looks at me with mock offense. "Don't laugh at my pain, Naomi."
"I'm not laughing at your pain, I'm laughing at the toast."
"The toast is an extension of my pain."
Dylan plucks the burnt piece from Keith's hand and drops it in the trash with the kind of long-suffering patience that speaks to this being a regular occurrence. "I'll make more toast. You sit down."
"This is discrimination," Keith mutters, but he's smiling.
And I help where I can, passing butter and jam, pouring orange juice, keeping my movements light and easy and helpful.
Always helpful.
That's another thing the Goddess of Happiness does—she helps. She makes things easier. She smooths over rough edges and fills awkward silences and makes sure everyone else is comfortable.
Even when she's not.
Especially when she's not.
We settle around the table—Keith and Dylan on one side, Cecil and I on the other. The morning light streams through the window, painting everything in warm gold.
It's beautiful.
It's perfect.
Yet, it makes my chest ache.
"So," Keith says around a mouthful of eggs, "what have you been up to, Naomi? Besides missing your roommate."
I take a bite of toast to buy myself time.
What have I been up to?
Working. Smiling. Attending classes I don't need because the mortal experience requires the appearance of normalcy. Going to parties where everyone else seems to know how to enjoy themselves while I stand in the corner feeling like I'm watching through glass.
"Oh, you know," I say brightly. "The usual. Classes, work, trying to keep up with Mom's expectations."
"How is Nalani?" Dylan asks.
"Busy. Always busy." I laugh, and it sounds almost real. "She's organizing some kind of celestial summit next month and it's taking over her entire life. I've barely seen her."
This, at least, is true.
Mom has been distant lately—not in a cruel way, never cruel, but in that way where she's so focused on her responsibilities that everything else fades into the background.
Including me.
But that's fine. That's normal. That's just how things are when you're the daughter of a goddess who has actual important work to do.
"That sounds stressful," Cecil says quietly.
I glance at him and find him watching me again with that same careful attention.
"It's fine," I say automatically. "She's doing important work. I get it."
"That doesn't mean it's not hard," he says.
The observation is gentle. Not accusatory. Just... true.
And something about the way he says it—like he knows exactly what it feels like to be the thing someone is too busy to focus on—makes my throat tighten.
"Yeah," I admit quietly. "It is. Sometimes."
Keith reaches across the table and squeezes my hand once, brief and warm. "Well, you're here now. And we're not too busy for you."
The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes me.
I squeeze back and smile. "Thanks, Keith."
Dylan changes the subject smoothly, asking about some TV show he thinks I might have seen, and the conversation flows into easier territory.
I let myself relax into it. Let the warmth of their company wash over me like sunlight.
This is what I came here for, isn't it?
To not be alone. To be around people who care, even if they don't know the full extent of what's wrong.
To feel less empty, even if it's only temporary.
We finish breakfast together, and I help clear the table despite Keith's protests that I'm a guest. Dylan washes dishes while Cecil dries, and I put things away in cabinets that Cecil points to with quiet efficiency.
It's domestic. Normal. Almost peaceful.
And I hold onto that feeling as tightly as I can.
---
After breakfast, I excuse myself to grab my things from the car.
The bag I packed this morning sits in my trunk—hastily thrown together, probably missing half the things I actually need, but enough for two nights.
I hoist it over my shoulder and head back inside.
Cecil is waiting in the hallway when I return.
"Need help?" he asks.
"I've got it, but thanks."
He doesn't move. Just watches me with that same assessing look that's been making me nervous all morning.
"Your room is this way," he says finally, gesturing down the hall.
"My room?"
"Keith's old room. Before I moved in, he was using it as storage." Cecil leads me down the hallway. "It's cleaned out now. You'll have more privacy than the couch."
"Oh." I follow him, adjusting the bag on my shoulder. "You didn't have to—"
"We wanted to."
He opens the door to reveal a small but comfortable room. A bed with clean sheets, a desk, a window with soft curtains. Simple and unpretentious and somehow exactly right.
"This is perfect," I say, and I mean it.
Cecil sets my bag on the bed and turns to face me.
For a moment, we just look at each other.
He knows.
The thought comes again, stronger this time, impossible to ignore.
He knows there's something wrong, something I'm not saying, something hidden behind the smile.
"Naomi," he says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"You don't have to—" He stops, searching for words. "You don't have to be okay all the time. Not here."
My smile freezes in place.
"I am okay," I say automatically.
Cecil's expression doesn't change. Doesn't call me a liar. Doesn't push.
He just... looks at me. Like he can see straight through the brightness to the hollow space underneath.
"Okay," he says finally. "But if you're not—if you ever need to not be okay—we're here."
Something cracks in my chest.
Just a hairline fracture. Nothing that shows on the surface.
But I feel it.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Cecil nods once, then moves toward the door. He pauses in the doorway, glancing back at me.
"I know what it's like," he says quietly. "To hide behind something because showing the truth feels impossible. To think that if people knew what was really going on, they'd—"
He stops.
Swallows.
"They'd what?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.
"They'd see you differently. Or worse—they'd try to fix you when you don't want to be fixed. You just want to be seen."
The words hit somewhere deep and true.
"Yeah," I breathe. "Exactly that."
Cecil's expression softens. "No one here is going to try to fix you, Naomi. We're just... we're just here. If you need us."
Then he's gone, closing the door softly behind him.
I stand there in the middle of this small, perfect room, staring at the closed door.
We're just here.
Simple words. Such simple words.
So why do they feel like the first honest thing anyone's said to me in months?
I sink onto the bed, my bag sliding off my shoulder to land beside me with a soft thump.
The smile finally slips.
Not all the way. Not completely.
But enough that I can feel my face relax into something closer to neutral. Something closer to real.
I'm so tired.
So tired of smiling. Of being bright. Of being the Goddess of Happiness who can make everyone else feel better while feeling nothing herself.
So tired of pretending.
Two days.
I have two days here, in this apartment, with these people who are learning how to be honest with each other.
Two days to maybe—just maybe—figure out how to be honest too.
Or at least to rest. To let the mask slip when no one's looking. To stop performing for just a little while.
I lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
The apartment is quiet around me. Not the suffocating quiet of my empty place, but a comfortable quiet. The kind that comes from knowing other people are nearby, moving through their lives, existing in proximity without demanding anything.
It's nice.
It's really, really nice.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I close my eyes without forcing a smile first.
Just close them.
And rest.