He drank himself to sleep that night, which wasn’t that different from every night. They would all ask him why, like he had an answer, like he had an answer they would believe. So he’d lay on his bed finding the only light he knew was from one single candle, and would watch it breathe as he thought of the lies he could have said, and the lies he did. But he didn’t lie. He could’ve so easily, it would’ve rolled off his tongue, practiced, from all the times he had before. But he didn’t. And now he was wondering why. What was different this time—a look, a tone, a change in scenery? Was it her—her eyes, her words, her lack of them? He didn’t know, and the water in his blood was only hindering the thought. Maybe he loved her, or maybe like any well-kept secret it had been yearning to break free from a broken body and a hidden mind.
She didn’t love him. She loved the idea of him; she loved the words that came out of his mouth. She understands words, emotions…she understands love. But she doesn’t understand relationships. She would only ever be able to understand, to love, his words, and his mind. Not their relationship or his being. Maybe that’s why he didn’t lie, maybe that was what he needed, the limited love and understanding she could give him. Maybe, he really just doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t even know that she doesn’t love him. Maybe that’s why he didn’t lie.
Maybe, he did.