he evidence has been piling up for the past few months and it was the fact that she didn’t have the decency to be honest or at least have our luggage packed and waiting by the front door has made her the monster she wished she wasn’t. She’s monstrous because of her lies but she’s cowardly because she couldn’t face up to her own reality and, in turn, couldn’t spare us from her ridiculous fantasy. It’s insulting, too, because the whole thing is incredibly obvious to everyone yet I’m assuming from her behavior that she hasn’t figured out yet that her façade has crumbled.

For awhile, I spent some time feeling bothered, especially when she has directly told me untrue things but I have realized that there’s nothing to be bothered over. It’s not worth my time to be involved in such a competition. Besides, if the worth of friendship is measured in temper tantrums then there is no way I could keep up anyway.

I’m guilty of reaction, that much is certain, but my guilt is frozen in time and does not ooze ever forward, an egregious act of embarrassment, protected by silence and misdirection, proof of trust destroyed, the unspoken lies made all the more stinging by the salt crystals on her honey-stained lips.