THE GIRL WHO SMILED TOO MUCH
"Ana, you're always smiling. Is life really that good for you?"
Ella's voice cut through the afternoon air, light and curious, like she was asking about the weather instead of something heavier.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny. Not because it was true. But because laughter was easier than explaining things no one would understand.
If she listened closely enough, she might have heard it the emptiness behind it. The slight delay. The way it didn't reach my eyes.
People always noticed the smile.
No one ever noticed the reason behind it.
I leaned against my locker, the cold metal pressing into my spine like it was trying to remind me I was still real, still here. Around us, the hallway buzzed with life students laughing, shouting, living freely in ways I never quite learned how to.
I envied them.
Not their happiness. Their ignorance.
They didn't know what it was like to feel alone in a room full of people who claimed to love you.
"My life?" I repeated softly, tilting my head like I was considering the question seriously. "It's perfect."
Ella smiled, satisfied with my answer.
She didn't see the lie.
No one ever did.
Because I had spent years perfecting it.
My name is Anastasia.
But no one calls me that.
To them, I am Ana.
Just Ana.
Simple. Easy. Forgettable.
I'm five-foot-four, small enough to disappear in crowds, but noticeable enough when people choose to see me. My skin is dark deep and smooth like midnight before the stars appear. My lips are soft pink, always curved into a smile I don't feel. My eyes are the only honest part of me. They carry things I never say out loud.
Things like exhaustion.
Things like loneliness.
Things like pain.
I am in my final year of high school. Senior year. The year everyone says is supposed to be unforgettable.
They're right.
But not for the reasons they think.
Because senior year was the year everything started breaking.
And the worst part?
It didn't break loudly.
It broke quietly.
Like me.
My family is rich.
Not the kind of rich that needs to prove itself. Not the kind that shows off with flashy cars or loud parties.
We are the kind of rich people whisper about.
The kind that moves in silence.
The kind that controls things without ever being seen.
My father is a powerful man. Important. Feared. Respected.
My mother is elegance personified. Beautiful. Untouchable. Cold.
Together, they created six children.
Five perfect ones.
And me.
I am the sixth.
The mistake no one talks about.
My siblings shine in ways I never could. They are confident, intelligent, charming. They belong to the world they were born into.
I don't.
I never did.
At family dinners, they speak with certainty, their voices strong and sure. I sit quietly, listening, existing on the edges of conversations I am never invited into.
I learned early that silence was safer.
Silence couldn't disappoint anyone.
Silence couldn't be rejected.
Silence couldn't break.
My mother once told me, when she thought I wasn't listening, "Anastasia has always been… different."
Different.
She didn't say it like it was a good thing.
She said it like it was something unfortunate.
Something broken.
And maybe she was right.
Because I have always felt like I didn't belong even in my own life.
Then there was Yamal.
He didn't appear suddenly.
He had always been there.
Watching.
Waiting.
For three years, he chased me.
Three years of small gestures. Lingering looks. Quiet persistence.
He was beautiful in a way that made people stare without realizing they were staring. Tall. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes that held confidence like it was his birthright. His presence filled rooms effortlessly.
Everyone loved him.
Especially the girls.
Especially me.
At first, I ignored him.
Not because I didn't notice him
but because I did.
And noticing him felt dangerous.
He didn't give up.
He waited outside my classes.
Walked beside me without asking permission.
Spoke to me like he already knew me.
Like I already belonged to him.
It should have scared me.
Instead, it made me feel seen.
And for a girl like me, being seen was rare.
So rare that when it finally happened, I didn't question it.
I accepted him.
Not because I loved him.
Not yet.
But because he loved me.
Or at least, I thought he did.
That was my first mistake.
Being loved by Yamal felt like standing in sunlight after years of living in shadow.
He gave me attention in ways no one else ever had. He noticed things. The way I tied my hair when I was nervous. The way I bit my lip when I was thinking too hard.
He made me feel important.
Necessary.
Chosen.
But love is strange.
Sometimes it doesn't show its teeth until it's too late.
At first, his attention felt warm.
Then it became suffocating.
He wanted to know where I was.
Who I was with.
Why I didn't answer immediately.
He said it was because he cared.
I believed him.
Because love, to me, had always meant endurance.
Sacrifice.
Silence.
And I was very good at silence.
There were moments, small and quiet, when something inside me whispered that this wasn't right.
The way his tone changed when he was angry.
The way his affection came and went like it was conditional.
The way I started changing pieces of myself just to keep him happy.
But I ignored it.
Because losing him felt worse than losing myself.
Because he had spent three years chasing me.
Because I thought that meant something.
Because I thought love was supposed to hurt.
I didn't realize then that love was never supposed to feel like survival.
One afternoon, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
I didn't recognize the girl staring back at me.
Her smile looked forced.
Her eyes looked tired.
Her silence looked permanent.
I touched the mirror gently, like I was trying to reach her.
Like I was trying to save her.
But she didn't move.
She didn't speak.
She just stared.
And in that moment, I realized something terrifying.
I was disappearing.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Completely.
And no one noticed.
Not my family.
Not my friends.
Not even Yamal.
Especially not Yamal.
If I could go back, I would tell her to run.
I would tell her that love shouldn't feel like drowning.
I would tell her that attention isn't the same as affection.
I would tell her that the boy she thought was saving her would be the one who broke her the most.
But she wouldn't listen.
Because she was young.
Because she was lonely.
Because she wanted to be loved.
And sometimes, that is enough to destroy you.
That was the beginning.
Not of love.
But of ruin.
And I didn't know it yet.
But everything was about to change.
Because soon, I would make the one mistake that would alter the course of my life forever.
A single message.
A single choice.
A single moment of weakness.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
If you want, I can now write Chapter Two in the same dark web-novel style, focusing on:
Yamal's obsession
The first emotional manipulation
And the moment Ana begins losing control
Just tell me.