Marcelle met you on a rainy afternoon, the kind of rain that blurred everything, the streets, the sky, even the truth. Your hands trembled as you pressed them against your chest, and when she rushed over, concern filled her eyes like light through storm clouds. You told her your heart was weak, that it could stop at any moment. The words came easily, almost beautifully, because you could see how they softened her. Even so, she stayed. She always stayed.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into something quieter, a rhythm between you. She would bring you tea in the mornings, help you up the stairs, count your pills as if each one were a promise that you would live another day. You would catch her watching you sometimes, that mix of fear and tenderness that only love or guilt could create.

You told yourself you loved Marcelle. Maybe you did. Or maybe you just loved the way she looked at you as if you were something delicate, something worth protecting. Because when you have been invisible for so long, even pity feels like warmth.

But lies never sleep. They breathe quietly beneath the surface until they are ready to rise. It started small, a forgotten appointment you pretended to attend, a medicine bottle she found still sealed. Then the questions came, a doctor’s name she could not find, a hospital that had never heard of you.

The world you built began to crumble the moment she said softly, "Why do I feel like I’m losing someone who was never really sick?"

You wanted to lie again, to tell her it was stress or confusion or anything that would keep her from walking away. But her eyes were full of truth now, and you could not breathe beneath it.

"If I hadn’t said I was dying," you whispered, voice breaking, "would you have stayed?"

Marcelle didn’t speak. She just looked at you as if searching for the person she thought she knew, the fragile one she promised to protect. The silence between you felt like a verdict.

You wanted to tell her that you didn’t mean to deceive her, that you only wanted her to stay long enough to know what it felt like to be loved. But love born from a lie is still a wound, soft at first, then endless.