worldsaway

Laughter. What a gift. A gift when it’s real—when it comes from somewhere honest, somewhere untouched. But what a curse when it’s forced. When it’s placed on you like a mask you didn’t choose, but somehow can’t take off. Like an identity that fits just well enough to fool everyone else.

I used to love to laugh. I think I still do. At least, I love the idea of it. Genuine laughter—the kind that catches you off guard, the kind that feels like it shakes something loose inside you—I remember that feeling. I just don’t remember the last time it was real.

Because there’s another kind of laughter. The kind that’s expected. The kind that hangs in the air after someone says something funny, and there’s this pause—this quiet pressure—like everyone is waiting for you to respond correctly.

So you laugh.

Right on cue.

At the right volume.

For the right amount of time.

Convincing enough that no one questions it.

I’m not even sure what my real laugh sounds like anymore. I think I lost it somewhere along the way, buried under all the versions I’ve had to create just to get through a conversation.

But I know my fake laugh. I know it perfectly. I’ve practiced it for years. It’s automatic now—second nature. A reflex.

No one knows.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. Because I work hard to make sure they don’t. I keep everything tucked away—the wounds, the thoughts that don’t have a place in normal conversation, the nights that stretch too long, the tears that don’t feel dramatic enough to matter but don’t ever really stop.

The loneliness.

God, the loneliness.

The kind that doesn’t go away even when you’re surrounded by people. The kind that sits beside you, quiet and patient, waiting for the moment you’re alone again so it can take up all the space.

It has broken me. Over and over and over again. Not all at once—never all at once. That would almost be easier. Just small fractures, repeated enough times that now I don’t even know what “whole” was supposed to feel like.

No one knows.

And if I tell them—if I finally say it out loud—they always say the same thing: “I knew.”

But they didn’t.

They didn’t know.

They knew the version of me I handed to them. The one that laughs at the right time. The one that keeps things light. The one that makes everything easier.

They didn’t see this.

They only see it when I put it in front of them, when I lay it all out and say, “Look. Look how broken this actually is. Look how much work it takes just to seem normal.”

And underneath that, whether I say it or not, is the real question:

Are you going to leave now?

Because that’s what I expect. That’s what always feels inevitable. Like there’s an expiration date on how long anyone can tolerate the truth.

So part of me thinks I should just get ahead of it. Be honest early. Rip it open before it gets too deep, before there’s anything real to lose.

Because the longer someone stays, the more it will hurt when they don’t anymore.

Or…

I keep doing what I’ve always done.

I keep hiding.

I stay easy to be around. I stay funny. I stay light. I fill the silence before anyone has a chance to notice it. I give them something to laugh at so they don’t look too closely at me.

A smile.

A laugh.

A perfectly timed joke.

It works.

It always works.

Everything is easier when everything is funny.

Easier for them.

Easier to digest.

Easier to keep around.

And I get to disappear inside it.

Because as long as they’re laughing, no one is asking questions.

As long as they’re laughing, I don’t have to explain anything.

As long as they’re laughing, I don’t have to be real.

Ha.

That’s funny.

Isn’t it?