And someone messaged me saying:
“I know what you wrote isn’t real. That didn’t really happen, you just wrote it for your own selfishness.”
It made me think.
How could she tell? What did I say that made her call bullshit??
I wonder if it was my tone. Maybe I over-exaggerated that one line just a little too much and killed all the realness and authenticity I was trying to put in the story.
I thought the whole thing was very convincing though. Most of the time, I’m honest. Rarely do I just “make stuff up” but, like, it’s not against the rules. There aren’t even really any rules to begin with.
I replied to her:
Before explaining myself, I wanted to see if she had some deep, underlying reason for calling me out about the fake story; given our past, it’s possible she still had trust issues.
She was always so knit-picky about the dumbest of things. That awful look of pure disgust came so easy to her. You could see it in her eyes. One glance was all it took and you knew right away how much she despised whatever you were saying, doing, and thinking. So literal and unimaginative, I hated that about her. She could never go with the flow and let people be themselves. Some things never change, I guess.
“I was there when that happened, Alec. You twisted everything around.”
I’d always felt it was okay to stretch the truth. Especially in writing. Now that I think about it, it’s possible I changed the story because of her. I was hoping she would never, ever see it. She’s the only one who would be able to sniff out my lies.
It’s all too real sometimes. Too harsh to write out in simple words. I also struggle with the opposite. Words that have no meaning. I hate to read the same old thing, with the same underlying lesson, by the same type of people. It’s all so trite.
Eventually, I mustered up the courage to tell her about the story:
“I made all that up so I could talk to you. So I could show you how I saw it. I wanted you to feel how I felt.”
That’s why I wrote this.