The Pretender

Where I'm from, masks of porcelain must be worn. Fragile as glass, yet they always gleamed with practiced joy, covering the face of everyone. their eyes bright, and mouths curved into smiles that never wavered.
everyone moved in measured steps, quiet and careful, so no shadow might disturb the light. I wore mine. It fit as well as it could, but beneath it, a quiet tautness lingered— a weight I couldn't reveal. I traced the norms of the world, yet found my presence stretched thin. and I yearned to understand how to achieve that perfect ease. how to pretend.
Then I found Doll. Her mask: spun glass and lace, so delicate it seemed a single breath could fracture it. Light caught in its lattices and shimmered. She radiated happiness and precision.
Hoping to make her perfection my own, we became friends. I began to spend time with her, trying to absorb her technique. Soon, I was invited to her home. The moment I crossed the threshold, I entered her world.
Her house was a cathedral of order. Floors polished to reflect, tables aligned with rulers. each color singing in harmony. The air was lively, carrying the scent of perfumed faux flowers, their immortal perfection never disturbing the symmetry. She spoke of them proudly, how they would never die.
I watched her movements: the delicate shaping of actions, the slow choreography of her gestures. It was as if each day had been rehearsed for a century.
We came to the kitchen. She cooked with exact precision: measuring cups, scales, timers— everything was accurate. Stirring, slicing, folding, as if the recipe were a song. her meals emerged flawless, steam curling like prayer, and I sat, trying to breathe with her same calculated care.
Weeks stretched on. I memorized the rhythm of her footsteps. Everything moved around me with certainty, and I moved as if I were her, careful not to break the fragile pattern. I finally believed nobody would realize I was pretending.
Then it happened. A hand slipped. and the mask fell.
Her mask fell.
Porcelain shattered across the floor, glittering like fractured stars, edges catching the light in shards too sharp to touch.
I looked up. I saw her eyes: Tired, heavy, real. The quiet weight beneath her gaze settled in the room, soft and undeniable. The perfect world, fractured.
I did not speak. instead, I reached up, found the edge of my own porcelain. It was heavy, thick with the weight of years. and I pulled it free.