My hand rested on the doorknob, idle and indecisive. I could see my parents sitting at the kitchen table, an empty chair in between them, waiting for me. Only minutes before I had received their call; they knew I lied, that I pretended to be at a friend’s house, when in fact, I was with you. I held on to that doorknob to savor my last punishment-free moment. Yet it was time to face the inevitable.

I walked towards the empty chair as their eyes followed me. The air in the house was thick with tension, slowing my steps to a mere shuffle. I expected to be grounded, punished, sent to my room at the very least. My dad then shattered all my expectations with one question: “why did you lie.” I looked up at him. His face was hard, body rigid and stiff. He was trying to appear furious, but his eyes were soft with a look of genuine hurt. It was a simple question, one I had been asked many times as a toddler. The concept of telling the truth should be so simple and basic, something I, a girl well into her teens, should no longer have to deal with. So, why had I had lied? Why had I pretended to be with a fellow girlfriend rather than just confess from the start? I was not ashamed or trying to hide you. No, in fact, I wanted to show you off to the world as mine. Yet that was the ultimate problem; you are not mine.

I lied to myself, not to my parents. I lied to avoid a toxic truth, that I don’t know what we are, what we’re doing, or how you feel about me; I’m too afraid to afraid of the answer to ask. Loving you is a dream, and I lied so I don’t have to wake up.