The Lie I Live With

It's been almost ten years, and I still can't shake it. College. Lisa. My best friend. And Mark, the guy she was so obviously head-over-heels for. He liked me. I knew it. She knew it, probably. I remember the way he'd look at me when she wasn't paying attention, the little touches, the stupid jokes only we understood. I ate it up. I lapped it up like a thirsty dog.

One night, at a party, he kissed me. It was stupid, drunk, behind the garage. But it happened. And I didn't stop it. Worse, I kissed him back. For a while. Then I panicked. He swore it meant nothing, just a mistake. I swore I wouldn't tell Lisa. I didn't. They got married. Have two kids. I'm the godmother.

Every birthday, every holiday, every goddamn family photo, I see it. The lie. It's etched on my face, I'm sure of it. She's happy. They're happy. And I'm just… this black hole of guilt sitting on the periphery, smiling for the camera. I should tell her. I know I should. But I can't. I'm too afraid of ruining everything. So I live with it. This gnawing, awful secret that eats away at me, piece by piece.