The truth burns 🔥
more than the lie.
— Celin Valentina
"I'm fine." It's a smooth stone, worn by habit, easy to skip across the surface of a conversation. It requires no heat, no light. It is the lie that cools, that soothes, that keeps me in the circle of your company.
But the truth… the truth is a different kind of flame.
To say, "I am in pain, but invite me anyway," is to hold a live coal in my mouth. To whisper, "My vision is clouded, but let me join the game," feels like breathing fire. The plea itself—"I am broken, but love me anyway"—is a conflagration. It chars my throat, sears my thoughts, and behind my eyes, it turns everything to ash.
So I swallow the ember. I let it smolder in my chest. I say, "I'm fine."
Because the burn of the truth is more searing than the chill of the lie. What if I blister my voice to speak my need, and you, confirming my deepest dread, simply turn away? The truth is, I am scared. I have been hurt, not by my own shadows, but by the absence of light in others, until "I'm fine" became the only safe script I had left.
It is not a lie I tell for you. It is a shield I raise for me. And in the silence that follows, I am hoping, desperately, that you will see the smoke in my eyes and love me anyway.
