The first time you noticed it, it almost felt like a joke.

“Enoch,” he had said, offering his hand like it mattered. Two days later, at a café, he told the barista his name was Forest.

You thought you misheard.

When you asked, he blinked at you, wide-eyed. “It’s Clyde Forest!”

And he said it so naturally, so easily, like reality had simply shifted and you were the only one who hadn’t caught up.

You didn’t push. Not yet.

It was small things at first. Harmless things.

He said he was allergic to peanuts — then reached into your bag ten minutes later and stole your Snickers, chewing thoughtfully, like he hadn’t just contradicted himself. When you stared, he froze for a split second, processing, then smiled.

“I used to be allergic,” he corrected softly.

Later, he told you he’d gotten into a fight. Bandages, a faint scrape on his cheek.

It sounded convincing.

Until you saw the security camera clip from the hallway of his apartment building. Him tripping on the stairs. No fight. Just gravity.

When you showed him, he didn’t get defensive.

He just looked at the screen, then at you, confusion flickering over his face.

“…Oh.” A pause.

“…I guess I fell.”

Like the truth had to catch up to whatever his mouth had already decided.

That was when you realized something was wrong. Not wrong in the way that made you feel unsafe. Wrong in the way that made your chest tighten.

His stories were never malicious. They were immediate. A question asked, and an answer slipped out before thought could catch it.

“Where were you born?”

“Mexico.”

And when you tilted your head, asking something simple — Spanish, maybe — he stalled. Just for a second.

“My parents moved,” he added. “After the war.”

“What war?”

And then—

Nothing.

Not defensiveness. Not anger. Just that look again. Like he’d stepped onto a bridge that wasn’t there.

Compulsive liars don’t always lie for gain.

Sometimes, it’s reflex.

A learned response. A way to avoid discomfort, to fill gaps, to feel interesting enough, safe enough, in control enough.

It starts early — environments where the truth wasn’t safe. Where being more got you attention.

So the brain adapts.

And eventually, it becomes habit. Then instinct. Then something they don’t even notice until it’s already happened.

Clyde didn’t notice.

Not until you looked at him like that.

His passport said Clyde Raynal.

You found it by accident, tucked carelessly into a drawer beneath tangled necklaces and loose rings. He never hid things properly. Never thought ahead enough to.

It didn’t shock you as much as it should have.

When you asked him about it, he just sat there, staring at the page like it belonged to someone else.

“…That’s old,” he said quietly. “…I think.”

Even he wasn’t sure anymore.

But he wasn’t a bad person. That was the problem. It would’ve been easier if he was.

If the lies were calculated. If there was a goal, manipulation, something you could point to and say this is why.

But Clyde was gentle.

Almost painfully so.

He remembered everything that mattered — your birthday, the way you liked your drink, the exact date you first met. He’d show up with small things, never forgetting. A charm, a note, your favorite snack.

He’d sit close, quiet, careful, like he didn’t want to take up too much space. And look at you like you were the only thing that didn’t shift.

And he never lied about that.

“Baby, did you know yesterday I literally went to Paris?”

His head rested on your chest, voice soft, almost dreamy. You knew he’d been at Leo’s, seen pics.

You could’ve corrected him. But you played along, humming in interest.

He stilled for half a second — just long enough to notice the difference.

Then he lit up.

Fully.

Leaning closer, eyes bright, something boyish breaking through the constant quiet tension in him.

“Yes! We absolutely must go there together!” Her said, like it was already real. Like he could build it into existence if he said it enough. And his fingers curled into your sleeve without thinking.