She is done with herself.
Why is she still nice to everyone? Why couldn't she come out from hiding? She knew the answer to that. Being nice for her is her only hope, hoping that her friends, family and other people would remember her. It was a slim chance, but she tells herself at least there it is better than nothing.
She couldn't really admit to herself that she's broken. Everyday, she finds something, doesn't matter how dull or interesting it is, she strives for something to talk about or to think about, just something to numb her mind. She knows that once the numbness goes away, the pain and the hurt would just come back and take over. She was afraid of it, so afraid that she couldn't bring herself to tell it to anybody.
Her conscience tells her to talk to somebody. Who could she talk to? Her parents were far too busy to listen, her friends wouldn't know what to say. A counselor might sound like the only choice but who was she kidding? Telling all this to a counselor would only get her sent to the mental institution. She wasn't crazy or anything. She is just hurt.
And so she writes. All her thoughts and her sufferings, all transferred onto an old journal that she found in her late grandfather's box. It was never used so she told herself, "Why not?" Every time this pain and hurt comes and attack her, she writes them down. To her, writing it all down would take the thought out of her mind as it is expressed into words. It sorts her thoughts out, after that, she is able to shut the pain out and starts to numb her mind again with other things.
She hides it well though. She never shows it. There's no point in telling the world she is sad. She can only count on herself to turn the frown upside down. She made it a point that she would never let anyone take away her happiness or stand in her way of feeling happy.
"It's me against this bloody world" is engraved into her mind.
