The Lie that Lingers [18+]

Chapter 1

 ❈❈❈

In the mornings, he could hear her blow drying her hair. Hair she'd always remind him she bought online whenever he complimented it.

"Doesn't make it any less yours," he'd always say.

And she'd laugh. And he knew that he would have to advise her of that forever— something he didn't mind —because he knew it gave her confidence to be proud of the hair she secured on every morning as much as the hair that grew from her scalp. And he was always fascinated by how she could wake up before him. 

Despite them both tirelessly spending the night together, no matter if they ended up falling asleep at 11 pm or 3 am, she could always get herself up when the sun rose and fulfill her simple routine. Pee, brush teeth, shower, make breakfast, write. And for all the things he loved about her there was only one thing he didn't. Not that he hated it but that it tugged at his most sinister emotions. He could never figure out if she loved him as much as he did her. He couldn't tell by her facial expression, she never showed him any emotions that she hadn't already shown someone else and he never heard her say anything definitive. 

But he also never dared to ask her, at least not directly. Childishly asking indecisive questions when he wanted decisive answers. But he couldn't help it. He was somehow always afraid of her, as if whatever she'd say— good or bad —would find a way to hurt him. But it was clear he didn't know her as well as he thought. 

He didn't know that she was always kind before she was judgmental. 

That judgement, to her, was something to be given out of love or concern. He didn't know that she could never hate anyone as much as she hated herself, so she'd only ever carefully and delicately respond to whatever he wanted to ask. That even when she knew he was asking indirectly whether she loved him, she tried to provide the direct responses he so silently craved.

"Will I see you again?" He'd always ask after breakfast. As if this hadn't been an already 13 month routine of theirs.

"Of course."

She'd never give a time nor a date. He never understood why. But he'd later come to realize that that was her own form of self-preservation. That answering definitively but not precisely was so that he could always have a reason to back out. That most people hate the feeling of being trapped but she seemed to hate the act of trapping people more. 

He couldn't even begin to describe what it felt like to be in her space, to watch her go about her life. He couldn't help but think that if he didn't exist in it, it would still follow the same exact structure and would still include all the same elements. He couldn't help but notice that at no point did it seem like he himself made an indent into it. That all traces of him seem to only hover around it. He'd then think himself a narcissist because when he took a step back and peered more objectively, no one seemed to be able to puncture her little life.