The lie began with a forgotten wallet.
It was a quiet evening, the kind where the air felt heavy with slow music and the clink of cutlery echoed louder than usual. He sat alone by the window, tracing along the rim of his untouched glass of water.
“Another coffee?” I asked, balancing my tray against my hip.
He looked up and smiled. “Yeah. Please. And… thank you.”
There was something soft about him.
He ate slowly, like someone who wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere else. When he finally asked for the bill, I dropped it gently on the table and turned away to attend to another customer.
By the time I came back, he was gone.
And his wallet was still sitting there.
“Hey, wait!” I grabbed it, rushing out the door just in time to see him stepping off the curb.
“Sir!”
He turned at the sound of my voice.
And then everything happened at once.
The screech of tires.
A shout.
A body hitting the ground.
The wallet slipped from my hand.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and fear.
I sat in the waiting area, his wallet clenched in my hands, replaying the moment over and over like I could undo it if I watched closely enough.
“You came with him?” a paramedic asked.
I hesitated. “I… no. I mean… I just… Yeah.”
But the words didn’t come out right. Nothing felt right.
Hours later, a doctor finally stepped out. “He’s stable,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “However, he’s experiencing temporary amnesia. It’s important we avoid any emotional stress. Familiarity helps. Confusion can make things worse.”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to.
When they let me see him, he looked smaller somehow. Pale. Still.
His eyes opened slowly when I stepped in.
And then he smiled.
“Sasha,” he whispered.
I was confused.
“Sasha… you’re here.”
I froze.
My name is Sasha.
How did he know my name?
I should have corrected him. I know that now.
But in that moment, with his hand reaching weakly for mine, with relief softening his face…
I couldn’t.
“I’m here,” I said.
And just like that, the lie began.
His sister arrived the next day.
“You must be his girlfriend, Sasha,” she said, pulling me into a grateful hug before I could even speak. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I swallowed, now it all made sense. His girlfriend and I had the same name.
She smiled, with tears in her eyes. “I’m glad he has you.”
So was I.
Days turned into a week. A week turned into something softer, something dangerous.
He told me things, little things. How he hated thunderstorms. How he always forgot where he put his keys. How he used to think love was something distant until “I” came along.
“You stayed,” he said one evening, his voice quiet. “Even when I’m like this.”
I looked away. “Of course.”
Because what else could I say?
That I was a stranger who had stepped into someone else’s life?
That I was only there because of a mistake?
We laughed. We talked. We shared silences that didn’t feel empty.
And somewhere in between, I forgot that none of it belonged to me.
Then it began, little chips at the glass bubble we were in. The cracks began to show before everything broke.
He’d pause mid-sentence, frown slightly. “Wait… that doesn’t sound right.”
Or he’d look at me too long, like trying to place a memory that wouldn’t settle.
One afternoon, he pulled his hand away from mine.
“You feel… different,” he said.
My heart stuttered. “Different how?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Like I’m remembering something else.”
I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “You’re just confused. The doctor said…”
“I know what the doctor said,” he snapped, frustration flickering across his face.
And just like that, I saw it, the beginning of the end.
She arrived two days later.
His real Sasha.
She walked into the room with urgency and love written all over her face. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
He stared at her like she was a ghost.
And then slowly, painfully, something shifted behind his eyes.
Memory.
Recognition.
Truth.
He looked at me.
Then at her.
And back at me again. Then it all came back.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice sharp, confused, hurt.
I stood there, the weight of every borrowed moment crashing down on me.
“I can explain,” I said quickly. “You were calling her name, and I…my name is the same and the doctor said not to stress you and I thought…”
“You thought what?” His voice rose. “That you could just take her place?”
“No! I didn’t mean for it to…”
The silence that followed was louder than any argument.
“You lied to me,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, but colder. “Every day.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what? The truth?”
I had no answer.
Because there wasn’t one that didn’t sound like another lie.
I left before he could say anything else.
Before I could see disappointment turn into something worse.
Outside, the world went on like nothing had happened. Cars passed. People talked. Life continued.
But mine felt like it had paused in the space between what was real and what I had pretended it to be.
I told myself I had done the right thing.
That I had only followed the doctor’s advice.
That I had meant well.
But none of that changed the truth.
I had taken something that wasn’t mine.
And when the truth came back, it took everything with it.
Sometimes I still think about that evening.
If I had just stayed behind the counter…
If I had just told the truth…
Would things have been different?
I don’t know, I guess now we'll never know.
All I know is this:
Some lies are told to protect people. Some lies are told to protect ourselves..And sometimes, the line between the two disappears until all that’s left is the damage they leave behind.
The photo used is edited by me using canva
Lots of love from jhymie 🥰
