And it’s not like I don’t smile at people. I do. I just… have a system. My 3-second rule. Pretend you don’t see them and avoid eye contact until you’re about 3-4 feet away. Then meet their eye, hold it, smile for exactly three seconds… and then look away, at the floor, a tree, anything. Done. If D is with me, I’ll say something random to her so it looks like we were in the middle of a conversation and I just paused to acknowledge for those three seconds.
It’s always worked for me. Sure, it’s never gotten me any discounts, but it feels like a safe middle ground...friendly but not enough for them to want to linger.
I see people who stop and talk to everyone they meet. Not just quick pleasantries, but full-on conversations... asking about life, family, everything. More than once, I’ve avoided taking the lift just to escape those few seconds of forced interaction. Sometimes I even catch myself holding my breath until the other person gets off.
I guess I know why I’m like this.
I used to be that smiley kid. The one who smiled for no reason, who used smiles as answers when she didn’t know what to say. I smiled at everyone. Easily. Without thinking.
Until this one day...I think I was in 7th or 8th grade. My sister and I used to come back home on the school bus. The bus stop was a short walk away from our apartment building. My sister always walked more slowly, talking and laughing with her friends. Loner me would make a beeline home, just waiting to tear off my uniform and feel the sweet relief of the AC.
One day, as usual, I got into the lift alone to go up to our apartment on the 7th floor. Just as the doors were about to close, a man stuck his hand in and stepped inside.
He smiled at me. I smiled back.
He looked like a maintenance worker... a middle-aged man, short, dark, wearing an old, faded shirt. The sleeves were unfolded, cuffs unbuttoned and it felt too long for his arms. He had thick, fat fingers. I don’t remember his face clearly now. He started making conversation. Asked me what school I went to, which grade. Made a joke. Laughed to himself. I giggled politely.
Then he moved closer.
He took my hand. I thought he was shaking my hand… but then he began pulling me closer. One of his arms snaked around me, while the other inched lower down my body.
My eyes shot open and I kept opening and closing my mouth, but no sound would come out.
His hand pressed against me, over my clothes, where it shouldn’t have been. It was sudden, rough, and it hurt. I yelped in pain. I tried to push his hand away, meekly crying, “No, no, please no, don’t.”
But he kept smiling, making that soft, coaxing sound, like an adult trying to get a child to eat. “It’s okay, shh, it’s okay,” he said, his fingers burrowing into my flesh like he was trying to tear it away.
I kept crying, still unable to scream or shout, just quietly pleading with him to stop.
The lift came to a stop. He pulled away and stood at the doorway, arms on either side, peering outside. He looked left, then right. Seeing him do that, I panicked. I was sure he was checking if the coast was clear so he could drag me out of the lift and…
But instead, he slipped out and disappeared.
Yet, I wasn't able to let myself believe that it was over. I hit the close button again and again, like my life depended on it. The doors finally shut and the lift started moving. When it reached my floor, I walked out, my body still aching, legs unsteady, wobbling my way to the apartment. I opened the door and cried hysterically.
I don’t remember who found me first.. my father or my mother. Between sobs, I began telling them what had occurred. And I'm not sure why, when it came to telling them what exactly he did to me, where he touched me...I couldn't tell them.
He touched me, I said. Where, they asked.. On my shoulder and arms, I lied. I couldn't bring myself to tell the truth. I felt... ashamed. Like, somehow it was my fault. Like they would blame me for not being able to stop him, for not screaming, for not fighting. Like they would be as disgusted with me as I felt about myself.
My dad was silent throughout. I couldn't look at his face. He suddenly asked me which floor the man got off on and then immediately went out looking for him. He never found him. I think my mother cried. I don't know. I don't remember how my sister reacted. I don't know if I've blocked out those memories or if nothing registered at that moment.
After that, things were a little different.
I stopped rushing ahead and started walking home with my sister, eyes trained to the ground. On the days that I was alone, I took the stairs... seven flights of them. I'd reach home panting. Advice came from everywhere. Few close relatives.. everyone telling me what I should have done. How I should deal with it if it happens again. I listened to everything wordlessly.
I stopped going out to play with the other kids in the building.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped smiling at people. Stopped meeting their eyes. Stopped trusting so easily.
When I finally worked up the courage to use the lift again after a while, I wouldn’t look at anyone. I constantly looked angry or sullen. If anyone asked me something, I'd tense up immediately and pretend I didn't hear. I felt like I was holding my breath every time anyone else entered the lift, while clutching my bag pressed tightly in front of me like an armour.
I’ve never told D this story. I’ve told her so many things about my childhood, but not this. I don’t want to yet. I don’t want her to lose that easy trust in the world before she has to. I worry for her instead.
When we’re in the lift and someone else walks in, I instinctively move her slightly behind me. I keep my eyes on her.
People at work ask me why I have to clock out every day for 15 minutes to go and pick her up from the bus stop when she’s almost 12. I ask myself the same thing. And some days feel like I should just let her walk home by herself. But I just… can’t. Not yet.
Sometimes she insists on taking the lift alone, to go downstairs to pick up a parcel or something. I refused at first but now I let her. But I stand there outside the lift, watching the numbers, my eyes fixed on the panel, as if that can somehow protect her. If it stops on any floor for even a second too long, I feel my chest tighten.
I know she’s smarter than I was. More cautious. We’ve talked about what to do in situations like this. Many times. I know she knows. But I know no matter how prepared you are, fear can freeze you.
Sometimes I think about what I would do, how I would react if she came home crying like I did that day. How will I stay standing and give her the support she needs? How will I forgive myself for not protecting her? How will I make things okay again? I know it's dumb, it's one of the things I do. Imagine the worst-case scenarios and get all worked up and anxious about it.
I never meant for this to become this kind of post. I started out wanting to write something funny about how awkward I am around people in my building. But somehow, it led me back here.
And I guess that’s the thing.
I guess these moments don’t really leave you. They just settle into some corner of who you become. The way you move through the world, the things you avoid, the instincts you don’t question, the eyes you don't meet.
I think of that man sometimes. Whether he remembers it, or if he's done it so many times that this was just another Tuesday to him. Would it have weighed on his conscience at any point in his life? Maybe when he had a child? A granddaughter? Would it have changed anything about his life, his world?
And I do wonder, sometimes, if I would have been a little different today if that day had gone differently. If I had waited for my sister. If I hadn’t taken that lift. Would I have been more trusting of people? Would I have been a different kind of mother?
But then again, that was not a singular incident. It repeated, of course, in different ways during different phases of life. Life has a way of slowly chipping away at innocence anyway.
The other day, I noticed that D doesn’t smile at strangers either. When someone asks her something, she replies unsmilingly, eager to end the conversation. I know people judge her, think of her as unfriendly or jaada. Once, I almost asked her, "Why can't you just smile when people ask you something? It's the least you can do", but then stopped myself.
Maybe it’s okay. Maybe not everyone deserves her smile.