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The Lie I Tell Myself

🇵🇭MadamDreamer
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Synopsis
"The Lie I Tell Myself" is a hauntingly raw and intimate portrayal of loneliness and self-deception. Through Lie’s voice, it captures the fragile beauty of masking pain with fiction—of crafting fragile hope with trembling hands. It is a quiet, yet powerful reflection on the human need to feel, even when the feelings themselves hurt. The reason I wrote this story is because I wanted to give shape to the unspoken struggles many carry—the weight of sadness without reason, the isolation felt even in the presence of others. It is a piece that reflects the moments where we lie to ourselves, not out of malice, but out of the desperate need to keep going.
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Chapter 1 - The Lonely Light

A village filled with life.

The moon glimmered above the sky, casting its pale light over the rooftops. Warm golden glows poured out of the windows of each house, painting squares of comfort against the night. Voices drifted through the crisp air—soft murmurs of conversation, bursts of laughter, the sharp edge of anger, or sometimes, just the faint whimper of sadness.

But my house wasn't like that.

There was still light inside, but no laughter, no voices. Not even the faintest sound could be heard. The silence was deafening, a weight pressing against my chest.

I didn't know that being alone could feel this lonely.

My heart felt empty and hollow, pulsing with a dull ache I couldn't describe. It was as if something was eating away at the edges of my being—slowly, quietly—until nothing remained but a faint echo of who I once was.

Sometimes, I questioned myself.

"Am I truly happy?"

I wondered if I had chosen this life, if I had willingly abandoned all responsibilities and human connections. Or had I simply drifted into it—one missed conversation at a time, one avoided glance, until I was too far away to return?

From the edge of the village, I gazed upon the lonely light glowing inside my home. My eyes burned, but I couldn't look away. My entire being was filled with an indescribable feeling. Was it despair? Loneliness? Sadness?

Or maybe… acceptance.

Acceptance of such a fate—to be alone.

Tears clung to my eyes. I let them fall.

Let them flow.

Let myself give in to the hollow feeling, because sometimes… sometimes that emptiness was the only thing that made me feel human.

That made me function.

I feared that if even sadness was taken away from me, my sanity would shatter completely.

And so, I hid it.

I hid the trembling in my hands from my family.

I hid the cracking in my voice, the glassy sheen in my eyes.

Because even though I was never truly alone in my home—people were inside, people who were called my family—I still felt it.

Alone.

Because I couldn't show them my vulnerability.

They would just laugh.

Laugh like the neighboring homes.

But mine would be filled with mockery.

"Why would you have such feelings? You're not alone—we're here, aren't we?"

"Why would you be sad? Do you have a problem? Just tell us, and we'll help."

But what if I told them that the sadness came into existence on its own?

Without reason.

Without cause.

Just because.

Of course, they would laugh.

Laugh at such stupidity.

"Why would you not know?"

"Why wouldn't you understand your own feelings?"

"That's impossible."

That was why I didn't tell the people called my family.

Because even if they said they would listen, they wouldn't.

Even if they promised they would understand, they couldn't.

Their words would tear me down.

Apart.

Piece by piece.

Until there was nothing left but guilt.

And I could only blame myself.

Blame myself for being stupid.

For not knowing why.

I felt crazy.

Insane.

My sanity slipping through my fingers like fine grains of sand.

I had no one to talk to.

No one to approach.

My only solace was writing.

Pouring myself into paper worlds that were not mine to traverse.

Losing myself in words and ink.

Creating lives that I could never live.

And as I sat there—on a rickety wooden chair, arms slumped over the desk, hands moving, writing—the same lonely light shimmered in the room.

Flickering softly, as if it, too, was tired.

And I thought to myself,

If my world was a book…

Maybe I would write my own happiness.

If only.

---

I sat at my desk, hunched over a worn journal with yellowing pages.

The ink smudged slightly under my trembling fingers, but I didn't stop.

The pen scratched harshly against the paper, carving words into it with desperate urgency. I wrote with the kind of pressure that could tear the page—shaky, uneven strokes—like if I pressed hard enough, the pain would bleed out of me.

My words stumbled onto the page.

Characters came to life under my trembling hands.

A wandering soul lost in an unfamiliar city.

A girl without a voice, screaming in her mind.

A nameless figure who existed only in the background, never meant to be seen.

Each one of them was me.

Pieces of me, scattered across a thousand fictional worlds.

I gave them my grief.

My loneliness.

My ache.

And I let them carry it for me.

For a while, it helped.

It was the only place where sadness was allowed to exist freely.

My hands shook when I set the pen down.

I stared at the ink-stained lines, eyes stinging from exhaustion.

The letters blurred and melted into one another.

"Are you alright?"

I flinched.

My mother's voice came from behind the door.

Soft, uncertain.

I quickly wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater.

The page before me was filled with frantic scribbles, some words barely legible.

"Yeah," I called back, my voice hoarse.

"Just tired."

She stood there for a moment.

And then walked away.

I listened to her footsteps fade.

Then turned back to my journal.

I flipped the page.

And kept writing.

Because this was all I had.

Because this was the only place where I was allowed to feel.

---

No one noticed.

No one ever did.

I became skilled at pretending.

At arranging my face into something presentable.

At wearing a mask so convincing that even I sometimes believed it.

At breakfast, I smiled at my sister's joke.

At lunch, I listened to my brother complain about school.

At dinner, I laughed when my father made a terrible pun.

I laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

Until it felt like second nature.

But sometimes, in the middle of those moments, I would catch my reflection.

In a window.

In the back of a spoon.

And for the briefest second, I would see it.

The blankness behind my eyes.

The vacant stare, the practiced grin.

And I would look away.

Because if I stared too long, I would crack.

---

The pen scraped violently against the paper.

I pressed so hard that it tore through the page, staining the next with blackened marks.

I didn't stop.

The words poured out, disjointed and raw.

"Why."

"Why do I feel like this?"

"Why can't I just be okay?"

"Why."

The ink smudged under my fingers.

My hands were shaking.

My breathing was uneven.

But I didn't stop.

Because if I stopped, I was afraid of what I would feel instead.

Or what I wouldn't.

---

I sat at my desk, staring at the same light—the one that had watched me for so long.

It flickered faintly.

So tired.

Just like me.

My hands were covered in ink.

My face was streaked with tears I didn't remember shedding.

And then, without thinking, I tore a page from my journal.

Folded it carefully, smoothing out the edges.

And placed it under my sibling's door.

But when I returned to my desk, the paper was still in my hand.

I stared at it, disoriented, confused.

Hadn't I just—

No.

I turned the page over.

In my own handwriting, I saw the words:

"I didn't know you felt this way. I'm sorry."

And my heart sank.

I let out a trembling breath.

I stared at the words, disbelieving.

I had written the note myself.

I was lying to myself.

Pretending.

Fabricating hope, even when I knew there was none.

Because sometimes, a lie was all I had.

The light still flickered.

But this time, it didn't feel warmer.

Just dimmer.

Just tired.

And I kept writing.

Not because it helped.

But because it was all I knew how to do.

Even if the happiness was only on paper.

Even if it was only a lie that I tell myself.