Double Face

          Hypocrisy—perhaps the finest talent humanity has ever perfected. It’s a delicate art, really, saying one thing while doing another, wearing masks with such ease that even the wearer forgets what lies beneath. And if there’s anyone who has mastered this craft to an almost admirable degree, it’s Jules. With a smile that could light up a room and eyes that promised sincerity, she walked through life like a saint among sinners—offering advice she never followed, preaching values she had long since abandoned. She could condemn lies while spinning her own, advocate kindness while slipping daggers behind unsuspecting backs. To the world, she was a model of virtue; in private, she was something else entirely. But that was the brilliance of it. Jules didn’t just practice hypocrisy—she wore it like a tailored suit, flawless and convincing, stitched from charm, intellect, and just the right amount of deceit.

As the first and oldest daughter in her family, Jules often joked that she and her younger sister were raised by two entirely different sets of parents. It wasn’t far from the truth. From a young age, the expectations piled high on her shoulders—silent, invisible bricks building a tower of responsibility she was never allowed to step away from. Her parents were strict, demanding excellence in every corner of her life. She had to be smart, composed, and endlessly diligent, a shining example of discipline and grace. Mistakes were not learning moments—they were failures to be corrected, scrutinized, and never repeated. Yet, when her sister came along, everything seemed to change. The rules softened. The punishments dulled. Her sister was allowed to stumble, to cry, to be loud and flawed without bearing the weight of shame. Jules watched it unfold like a bitter play, smiling through clenched teeth as her parents chuckled at behavior that would have earned her hours of scolding. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, that’s what she told herself. It was confusion, perhaps, or the aching loneliness of someone who was never allowed to simply be a child. And that’s how she mastered the talent of hypocrisy. It wasn’t born overnight, but molded slowly, quietly, under years of expectation and imbalance. Pretending became second nature—first to survive, then to thrive. “Acting with a double face is not that hard,” she once mused to herself during an imaginary podcast session she hosted in her head, voice smooth and confident like a seasoned speaker. “Your public self and private self—you have to separate them,” she added, nodding slightly as if her invisible audience was hanging onto her every word. In public, she was polished and poised, the image of control and elegance. The perfect daughter, the high-achiever, the girl who never slipped. But in private? There, she was allowed to unravel, to roll her eyes, to scream in silence and breathe without performance. Hypocrisy wasn’t a betrayal of self—it was a method of preservation. A split identity, carefully curated, that allowed her to move through a world that never gave her room to be anything less than ideal.

Well, actually, Jules was far from perfect. She was just… average. Ordinary grades, decent at most things, never quite exceptional. But what set her apart wasn’t brilliance—it was restraint. She clung to mannerisms like lifelines, always careful, always composed. She never let her words sting, even when her insides boiled or cracked. Whether with friends or strangers, she chose silence over confrontation, gentleness over honesty. Calm, patient, quiet, reserved—those were the first impressions she left behind, and people rarely looked further. Even her friends said so, half-admiring, half-confused. They saw her as the grounding force in the chaos of life, the one who listened without interrupting, who nodded thoughtfully and spoke only when her words could offer peace. What they didn’t see—what Jules never let them see—was how much effort it took to be that way. How exhausting it was to carry the weight of being “good” when all she wanted was to scream, to contradict, to say what she really felt without the fear of hurting someone. But she never did. Because deep down, Jules believed being kind, even at her own expense, was the closest thing to control she had left.

Sometimes, late at night, Jules would lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone would still like her if she dropped the mask. If she stopped being agreeable, stopped nodding along, stopped muting the ugly truths inside her. There were things she wanted to say—sharp, complicated thoughts that didn’t fit the image everyone had of her. But she had learned long ago that being difficult came at a cost, and she wasn’t sure she could afford it. So, she smiled. Always smiled. Bit back her frustration when classmates talked over her. Offered understanding even when her friends vented without ever asking how she was doing. At family gatherings, she played the well-behaved daughter, the one who asked about work and school and never dared to bring up the past. It wasn’t that she enjoyed playing this part. But it was familiar. Safe. Like an old coat that didn’t quite fit anymore but still offered warmth.

But even that quiet, polished version of Jules was built on little contradictions. Hypocrisy wasn’t just a shield—it became a quiet companion, a whisper in her ear every time she gave advice she barely followed. She told her friends to be patient, to breathe through stress, to treat others with grace. But on her private account—locked, hidden behind a meaningless username—she vented in curses and all-caps, letting her frustration bleed into the digital void. She swore under her breath when her laptop lagged, rolled her eyes when someone walked too slowly in front of her, silently cursed the world when things didn’t go her way. But in person? She was serene, like a monk in a modern outfit. “Take your time, don’t burn yourself out,” she once said to a friend crying over deadlines. They thanked her, called her nice. Jules smiled. Later that night, she sat in front of her screen at 1:57 a.m., furiously typing out the first paragraph of a report due in forty minutes. Her own planner was filled with neat handwriting and color-coded tabs, but most of it was fiction—she often scribbled in things after she’d done them, just to feel productive. She’d say, “You should plan ahead,” even though she only opened her syllabus when the alarm bells rang. And it wasn’t malicious. Jules didn’t lie to hurt anyone. In fact, she wanted to help. She really did believe in patience, in hard work, in taking care of one’s mental health. She just… couldn’t always do it herself. So she told others what she needed to hear, hoping that maybe, by saying it out loud, she’d eventually follow through. That maybe her words would echo back and convince her to be better.

There were even more subtle betrayals—quiet little hypocrisies that nestled themselves into the everyday, so small and routine they almost felt natural. Like when her younger sister acted out—storming off, slamming doors, muttering insults under her breath—Jules would step in as the voice of reason. “She’s just going through a phase,” she’d say gently to her parents. “She needs space, not more pressure.” And her parents, tired and exasperated, would sigh and nod, grateful for Jules’ maturity, for her wisdom, for her unshakable calm. But what they didn’t hear—what no one heard—was the sneer Jules gave behind closed doors. The way her lips curled when her sister played the victim again. The quiet scoff she muttered when no one was looking, or the annoyed eye roll she aimed at the ceiling when her sister’s voice rose an octave too high. She told herself she was being patient, understanding. But she wasn’t. Not really. She was just tired of watching her sister get away with things she never could. Another time, her friend was spiraling over a situationship. Tearfully texting Jules at midnight: “Do you think I’m annoying? Should I stop texting him first?” Jules replied, gentle and reassuring. “No, of course not. You’re just showing you care. Don’t overthink it.” She even added a heart emoji. But right after hitting send, she muttered, “God, just block him already,” into her pillow and turned her phone over in exasperation. Or when she tweeted cheerful mantras from her semi-public account—“Small steps are still progress” or “You are allowed to rest”—with a sunny aesthetic to match, only to close the app and binge-scroll on TikTok while her to-do list gathered digital dust. She’d forgotten her water again. Forgotten to eat until her stomach ached. Forgotten, even, to breathe sometimes. But online, she was the queen of wellness. It wasn’t that Jules wanted to deceive anyone. She didn’t sit in her room twirling invisible villainous mustaches. She just… couldn’t seem to be the person she claimed to be. It wasn’t malicious—it was muscle memory. Years of being the eldest daughter, the role model, the patient one. Somewhere along the way, she learned how to say the right things even if she didn’t believe them. To play the part even when the stage was empty. And when she looked in the mirror, sometimes she wondered who she actually was. The calm, understanding Jules everyone praised? Or the frustrated, tired girl behind the curtain, whispering truths she wouldn’t dare speak aloud?