From that day on, Lina began watching people differently.
Not their words.
Not their posture.
Their faces.
At first she thought it was just professional habit.
Psychologists always observe more than they hear.
But now it was different.
She began noticing moments.
Brief ones.
Almost imperceptible.
As if for a split second a person’s face became someone else’s.
The first time it happened was at the university.
A lecturer was walking down the hallway.
Students liked him.
He always joked around.
Told stories.
Seemed warm.
A girl hurried past.
– Good morning!
– Morning.
He smiled.
The girl walked on.
The smile vanished.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
As if someone had switched it off.
His face went blank.
Tired.
Even older.
A few steps later a colleague caught up with him.
– How are you holding up?
The smile returned.
Exactly the same one.
Lina stopped.
She couldn’t say what was strange about it.
But she sensed it.
The smile was perfect.
Too perfect.
In the evening she stopped by the shopping center.
A woman with two small children stood at the checkout.
The children were laughing loudly.
The mother laughed along with them.
Answered patiently.
Stroked her daughter’s hair.
Suddenly the phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
The smile disappeared.
– Yes.
Her voice turned cold.
– No.
I didn’t say that.
After a few seconds she hung up.
Turned back to the children.
Her face was gentle again.
As if nothing had happened.
Lina no longer heard what they were saying.
She was only watching the transition.
How quickly a person could become someone else.
The next morning, drinking her coffee, she almost unconsciously opened social media.
An acquaintance had just posted a photo.
Smiling broadly.
Beneath it was written:
Life is a gift.
A minute later he called.
– Hi.
His voice was hoarse.
– Do you have a minute?
– What happened?
A long silence.
– I don’t know anymore.
Lina said nothing.
– I think I’m tired of being the person everyone sees.
She closed the app.
The photo was still on the screen.
The same face.
The same person.
But now she already knew the two had nothing in common.
That same evening she came home earlier than usual.
The hallway was quiet.
Her neighbor’s door was ajar.
Laughter drifted through the gap.
Lina was about to walk past when the door suddenly closed.
The laughter stopped.
A few seconds later a shout came from behind the wall.
A man’s.
Then a woman’s.
After a minute, silence fell again.
Lina stood without moving.
A few moments later the door opened.
The same neighbor came out.
Neatly dressed shirt.
With a smile.
– Good evening.
– Evening.
He walked off.
Lina looked at the closed door for a while longer.
She remembered his wife.
Always polite.
Always smiling.
Always saying that everything was fine.
The next morning she opened her notebook.
She no longer wrote about dreams.
She wrote a single sentence.
A person has more than one face.
A minute later she added another.
That still doesn’t mean they’re lying.
She stared at the empty bottom of the page for a long time.
Then wrote.
But which of them lives the longest?
That evening she came home tired.
She threw her coat over a chair.
Washed her hands.
Only one light was on in the bathroom.
She raised her eyes.
A woman stood in the mirror.
Tidy hair.
A calm face.
The same one her patients saw every day.
Lina stared for a long time.
Then quietly asked:
– How many of you are there?
There was no answer.
She smiled.
Professionally.
As if she were in her office.
The smile looked familiar.
She had seen it thousands of times.
Only now she could no longer remember…
Whether she had ever smiled like that because she truly wanted to.
The smile slowly faded.
Her face remained calm.
But somehow foreign.
She stepped closer.
Almost touched the glass.
Suddenly she understood.
All week she had been looking for other people’s masks.
She had never once asked herself when she’d put on her own.
She stepped back.
The mirror said nothing.
It didn’t need to.
That evening, for the first time in her life, Lina didn’t write down a single conclusion.
Only one question.
And which of my faces is the real one?