Lies

In a way, our entire relationship has been built on lies.

When I saw you for the first time – debating with a mutual friend on a topic I can’t seem to remember now – I was in awe. I wanted to know you. I wanted to talk to you. I never believed that we had a chance together; you were too good for me. I was just happy to be your friend. Just happy to be near you. As our friend's circle drifted apart, we grew closer. We started spending more time together. But I never dared to dream of a future with you. Despite you sending signals that seem quite obvious now. She’s just being friendly, I’d tell myself. Don’t overthink this. I was scared of losing what I had in the quest for something that I believed I could never have, for you were so out of my league.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can now see that those thoughts were a lie.

Do you remember our wedding day? How jittery you had been? Unsure of whether we were making the right call. Unsure about the timing of it all. “Are you not nervous?” you’d asked me. And I had said, “Yes, yes I am”. Well, I had lied. My mind couldn’t have been more clear. I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. But you were not searching for truth or clarity that day. You wanted someone to tell you that you were not being paranoid and that your concerns were not hysteria.

And so, on our wedding day, I lied to you, didn’t I?

I still remember how happy you were when you showed me your pregnancy test, your face redder than the lines on the machine. My mind had gone from confusion to befuddlement to elation, circling the earth along the way. I was overjoyed, ecstatic, for I was going to be a father! But somewhere at the back of my head, a lingering thought had begun taking shape. What if I failed at being a good father? What if I ended up transferring my trauma, and my personal issues, to my offspring? What if my efforts were not enough to give my little one a quality life? Somehow, you had sensed the doubts in my mind, but you did not say anything. You just gripped my hand a little tighter and blinked. Once. Then again. And that had been enough to alleviate my fears.

Now that I see my little one, all grown up and with a family of her own, I realise that my worries were nothing but a lie.

I cannot forget the couple of years I had been out of a job. Dozens of failed interviews had left me despondent, turning me into a failure in my own eyes, giving me sleepless nights. But you had stayed by my side, through snide remarks and rebukes, through anger and sadness, through hellfire and brimstone. I remember you’d check up on me every time you found me staring at the nothingness ahead. You’d pull me in an embrace and ask, “Feeling better now?” Our savings were drying up. We were running late on our monthly bills. Asking friends for help was getting more embarrassing by the minute, eating away at my self-respect piece-by-piece. But I did not want you to worry about these things.

So I’d look you dead in the eye, and I’d say “Yes” – I’d lie.

Now, as I lie in our bedroom, with your hands intertwined in mine

This tumour in my body ready to take away my life

Humour me, as I tell you one final lie:

I’ll be by your side till the end of time.