More Than Lies

Imagine stepping out of the shower in a home you believe you are loved, cherished, and safe—only to find a hand-drawn heart on the fogged mirror, and realize another woman left it there. Then imagine the lies told to make me feel better. Maybe someday I will tell this story.

January 8, 2026

I still get hit with memories from the time I spent with you.

What surprises me isn’t longing or sadness anymore.

It’s the way the tendrils of our relationship still surface—

quietly, unexpectedly—

bringing with them new realizations.

Not about what we were,

but about what was happening underneath.

About the lies.

The falsehoods.

The carefully constructed story you were telling me that was never fully rooted in reality or care for how your actions would affect me.

There are so many of them that it’s honestly alarming.

Not a white lie here or there—

but deliberate, crafted moments.

Songs you played.

Words you chose.

Rituals you repeated.

Asking me if I felt safe, warm, and loved while I lay naked in your arms.

The ease with which you held me.

Comforted me.

Listened to my fears.

Then said exactly what you needed to say to soothe me—

even when what you said wasn’t true.

Even when it was directly contradicted by what you were secretly doing.

And then there’s the other side of the coin: everything you withheld.

I know some of those things but definitely not everything.

As time passes and my attachment to you continues to loosen,

more threads of deception rise to the surface.

One by one.

Quiet memories that now land very differently.

Each one revealing how deeply manipulative the dynamic truly was.

I don’t even know where I would begin if I tried to list them all—

or whether there would be value in doing so.

When I sit with them too long, I feel disgust.

At the ease with which the poison flowed out of you.

At how carefully the illusion was maintained.

At my own innocence inside it.

They weren’t all direct lies.

Some were far more covert.

A memory surfaced today—

one that many people would likely shrug off as insignificant.

Conversations we used to have when I got my period.

I would say I was relieved, grateful even.

That my body was doing what it was supposed to do.

That I wasn’t pregnant.

You would respond by saying you were relieved too—

because if I were pregnant,

it would mean I might have stepped out on you.

You said you would spend the rest of your life trying to work through the resentment if that happened.

At the time, two thoughts crossed my mind.

First, if I had gotten pregnant, it would have meant your preventative measures failed.

And second—this one breaks my heart now—

I thought:

Oh. He would be willing to raise a baby that wasn’t his because he loves me.

I took it as proof of your goodness.

Of your character.

Of the depth of your devotion.

Fuck.

You said that to me while you were actively sleeping with other people.

I don’t know how many.

But I know that you had me on scheduled date nights while at least one other woman believed she was in an exclusive relationship with you too.

That’s just one small memory.

One sentence.

One moment that might seem meaningless on the surface.

But for me—

still untangling the web I lived inside—

it’s another confirmation of who you truly are beneath the performance.

And it leads me to questions I will never ask you directly.

How many lies have you told about me to others?

How many times did you twist the truth or omit the parts that mattered?

How many times have you lied to the woman you’re with now as she lies naked in your arms—loving you, trusting you, hoping she’s safe?

How many times has she told you how she feels, only for you to say—or not say—whatever you needed to in order to preserve the story you want her to believe? To maintain control. To keep getting whatever it is you need.

Have you told her that, yes, you have made mistakes, that you want to be better, and that she can keep you in line?

Have you told her she is different? That you really love her?

Have you told her how easily you change your mind?

I am not a perfect woman.

I have lied. I have withheld truths. I have hurt people.

But I have never encountered another human being capable of creating such elaborate, parallel realities with different people—and sustaining them over time—with such ease.

And that realization, more than anything, is what still surfaces now.

Still, sometimes I wish we could talk.

Have a real conversation.

But then I remember I could never trust what you would say to me.

Because you lied so much—to me and to so many others.