Yesterday wasn’t too bad.38Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFG2Xi2GNXu
I think.
I only had one person who hated me. But I was only telling them the truth. I told them I hate my job. She said a job is a job and I should be grateful because my job has good pay.
I do not understand why people think money makes misery decorative.
Also, I recently got a new book from the library called How to Human 101, but someone said it’s really just a knockoff of How to Make Friends. I think that’s inaccurate. Friends are optional. Humans are unavoidable.
I think I’ll be using this book a lot.
I’ve already started on the first section.
It says “Smile.”
Why?
The book does not explain why. It simply states it like a commandment. Smile to appear approachable. Smile to build trust. Smile to ease tension.
My face does not do things on command.
I practice in the bathroom mirror before my first session. The result is unsettling. My mouth pulls back too far. My eyes do not participate. I look like I am warning someone of danger.
I try again. Smaller. Less teeth. More… warmth?
I look like I am lying.
The client knocks.
I panic and sit down too quickly.
The door opens and a man walks in. Mid-thirties. Nervous energy. He fidgets with his sleeves. Anxiety. Mild. Possibly chronic.
I remember the book.
Smile.
I smile.
I hold it.
He freezes.
“…Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, still smiling. “This is my face.”
That does not sound correct.
He sits. Slowly. Like he might bolt.
We stare at each other. I realize I am still smiling. My face begins to hurt.
“So,” he says. “I’ve been having panic attacks.”
I nod. Smile still engaged.
“That sounds difficult,” I say, because the book suggested acknowledging feelings. My voice is polite. My face is lying.
His eyes flick to my mouth.
“…Why are you smiling like that.”
I stop smiling.
Relief floods my jaw.
“Thank you,” he says immediately. “That was stressing me out.”
I make a note in the margin of the book:
❌ Smile always
✔ Smile selectively
The session improves after that. He talks. I listen. I forget to perform. At one point, he laughs. At another, he breathes easier. I do not smile. It still works.
After he leaves, I look down at the book.
“Smile,” I read again.
I cross it out lightly. Not fully. Just enough.
Maybe smiling is not about teeth.
Maybe it is about not pretending.
I close the book.
My face hurts.
Another person walks in.
Haley.38Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3wrZTQPEBV
The receptionist.
Thank god. She is a known quantity. She understands this building. She has survived here longer than I have. She can help me.
“Haley,” I say immediately. “I need help.”
“Of course,” she says easily, already smiling in a way that seems legal and intentional. “What do you need help with?”
I reopen the book. The spine cracks ominously. I point at the diagram of a person smiling—too many teeth, oddly symmetrical, unsettlingly confident.
“How do I accomplish this?” I ask.
Haley walks over to my desk and leans in, peering over my shoulder. Her perfume hits me. Too floral. I resist the urge to scoot my chair back.
She squints at the page. “Uhh… why do you ask? Are you going on a date or something?”
Without thinking, I say, “Yes.”
She brightens immediately. This was a mistake.
“…Yes?” she repeats.
“It is something,” I add, because that feels technically accurate.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god. Who?”
I panic.
My brain flips through options:
•A client (illegal)
•A coworker (worse)
•A fictional person (safest)
“…A man,” I say.
Haley gasps. Full gasp. Hand to chest.
“A man,” she whispers like I’ve just confessed to a crime or a miracle. “Tell me EVERYTHING.”
“There is nothing to tell,” I say. “The smiling is the primary concern.”
She laughs. “Jennifer, smiling isn’t that hard.”
I look at her. Carefully. “I disagree.”
She tilts her head. “Okay. Show me your smile.”
My stomach drops.
Here?38Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ56Lb0gZjUx
Now?38Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVP5I6iZMaF
In the office?
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I attempt the book smile.
Her face immediately twists. “Nope. Nope, don’t do that.”
I stop.
“That looks like you’re threatening me,” she says gently.
“That is not my intention,” I assure her.
“I know,” she says. “Okay. Try this instead. Think of something you like.”
I think of chicken nuggets.
“Good,” she says. “Now just…let your mouth soften. Don’t pull it back. Let it lift a little.”
I do.
It feels wrong. Vulnerable. Exposed.
She tilts her head. “That’s it.”
I blink. “It is?”
“Yes,” she says. “That’s a smile.”
I look down at the book, then back at her. “It does not resemble the diagram.”
“The diagram is lying to you,” Haley says. “Smiling isn’t about teeth. It’s about… warmth.”
Warmth.
That seems subjective and unhelpful, but I nod anyway.
I try again. Smaller. Less effort. Just… letting my face exist without bracing.
Haley grins. “There! See? You look nice.”
Nice.
I stare at the book.
I draw a small circle around the diagram and write beside it:
This is incorrect.
“Good luck on your date,” Haley says, turning to leave.
“Yes,” I say faintly.
She pauses at the door. “You know,” she adds, “you don’t have to smile all the time.”
She leaves.
I sit there quietly for a moment.
Then I practice the smile again. Just once.
It doesn’t hurt this time.
A client walks in.
Okay. Think of chicken nuggets.
I soften my face the way Haley showed me. Small. Controlled. Apple juice adjacent.
They smile back.
Why are they smiling.
“Oh my gosh,” they say brightly. “Your smile really brightened up my day.”
You say that like I’m the only existing person who smiles.
She sits down and immediately starts talking. Fast. Too fast. Words tumble over each other like she’s afraid silence might grab her ankle.
She hasn’t seen a single good thing happen all day. The barista gave her the wrong milk. Her phone battery died at 11%. Someone cut her off in traffic. The vibes are bad. The energy is negative. Mercury is apparently responsible.
I nod. I maintain the smile. My face starts tingling in warning.
She keeps going.
“…and it’s just been one of those days, you know?”
I sigh.
My smile drops. Sweet, blessed relief.
“Is there a way that I can help you?” I ask.
The room goes quiet immediately.
“Uhh…” she says.
We wait.
She looks at the floor. At the wall. At me. Her smile fades.
“…I guess I just wanted to talk,” she says.
I consider this carefully.
“You are wasting time and money,” I say, evenly, “on telling me things that your friends would most likely care about more than I would.”
Silence detonates.
Her eyes widen. “Wow.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“That’s—” she laughs, but it’s strained. “That’s kind of rude.”
“It is accurate,” I reply. “But rude, yes.”
She crosses her arms. Defensive now. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t be here?”
“I am saying,” I clarify, “that therapy is for problems that impair your ability to function. Bad vibes are inconvenient, not clinical.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
“…Oh.”
“If you feel persistently unhappy,” I continue, “that is different. But today sounds frustrating, not pathological.”
She sits back. Quiet. Thinking.
“…I guess,” she admits slowly, “I didn’t really know why I booked this.”
“That is common,” I say.
Another pause.
“…Honestly,” she adds, “my friends are probably better for this.”
“Yes.”
She exhales, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Wow. Every other therapist just lets me ramble.”
“Ramble has its place,” I say. “But this is expensive rambling.”
She snorts.
Then laughs. A real one.
“Okay,” she says, standing up. “You’re… weird. But thanks. I think I’ll cancel the rest of my sessions.”
“That seems financially responsible,” I say.
She leaves.
I sit there, staring at the door.
I did not like her.
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and then Add to home screen.