Why Do You Lie?

She’d been perfect. I loved the southern accent and the mismatched socks that she never seemed to be aware of. She was like a breath of fresh air in the Electric City long since dying, maybe even dead already, after coal became nearly obsolete. I tried to tell her often that I appreciated her, that she was pretty, and that she was talented. They weren't lies. I never lied to her.

She didn't lie to me. Usually. I let it slide when she did. She’d say she couldn't go out, but I'd see her with her friends. I only confronted her once. She was so determined not to talk, so damn stubborn, that I asked her if she even wanted to date me. If she had ever trusted me. It made her cry. Her dad didn’t want her to see me, she relented. She usually blamed her father, a big, stoic guy with years of military service and an obsessive Christian faith. He never liked me. But she didn’t talk much even when we did see each other.

When she asked me to read a short story of hers, I jumped at the opportunity. I must have read the piece thirteen times. I could see her personality flowing into the words. Every word I read, I learned more about who she was. From her poetry to full novels, the picture of her became clearer and clearer. I tolerated the lies, because she spoke plainly on the page. Our own system of communication.

Nobody really saw it coming when she ended up in the hospital after tossing half a bottle of acetaminophen down her throat. I was terrified. All I got was a 2-sentence text from her mom the morning after.

She came back to school a week and a half later. I was one of few people who knew why. She lied to everyone else. She returned more closed off. There were no more stories and fewer dates. I was so scared she'd do it again, that I pushed her often to tell me what was going on in her head. Why had she done it? Was it so bad to be alive? Sometimes, she would tell me she was fine. Sometimes she wouldn't respond at all.

I saw her writing diligently in a notebook a month after her hospitalization. I felt a wave of relief, like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders, seeing her pencil drift back and forth across the page. Maybe she was ready to talk again.

As soon as I asked, she snapped the book shut. I could have sworn guilt washed over her face. She refused to let me read it. Something deep in me guttered. She was always lying, always secretive, and always blaming it on her damned father. I realized I couldn't do it. "Are you hiding something from me?" I couldn't stop the words. If she wasn't going to trust me, I had to break up with her. It was driving me insane. I told her so.

She slowly handed me the journal. I read it in one night. It must have been 80 pages of her. Of her fears and desires. Of her secret thoughts and fragile hopes. Her words coiled around my heart. She was okay.

I was relieved. I returned her journal and asked if we could talk. She came over that afternoon. I did most of the talking. I tried to kiss her, but she wouldn't kiss me back. I just wanted her to feel something. I pulled her close and slid my hands under her T-shirt. She cried. And I guess that was the end.

After weeks of nothingness from her, I told her I was breaking up with her. She said, okay. She wouldn't even let me drive her home. She walked down my driveway and around the corner. She barely acknowledged me again after that. She looked like a shell. I heard she attempted again after high school. A part of me hates her for being so depressed. The other part hates myself for not being able to help.

Other perspective: https://www.theprose.com/post/813274/why-i-write