She was the ultimate, unreliable narrator. Her words were a compromised version of credibility, even to her own ears. In the silent space that occupied the ever-growing void between her own voice and her friend’s supportive responses, she would inwardly chastise herself for uttering such obvious untruths.
In time, her circle of friends became one of passing acquaintances. Then, even that sphere shrank to the size of a little-white lie. Now, she reclines alone upon her little-white-bottle-strewn bed.
She thinks of the myriad of moments where she recognised “the feeling”, when she chose not to instruct herself to shuffle away from the precipice.
Now, as the selfish narrator of her own story, she tells herself the ultimate jet-black lie: a bodiless whisper to herself in the darkening room – “Jump, I’ll catch you.”