The Perfect Lie

Episode 1: The Perfect Lie

Jeaner never believed in fairytales, but if there was one person who made her consider the possibility, it was Kellan.

Their apartment sat on the tenth floor of an old brick building in the heart of Verona Hills. The space was modest but warm, full of mismatched pillows, fading polaroids, and little notes Kellan left her in the mornings—scribbled on napkins and stuck to coffee mugs: “Don’t forget your smile today.”

She hummed as she prepared his favorite dinner—lemon rosemary chicken and sweet potatoes—checking her phone now and then. Kellan was late, but he always was. A busy photographer with clients across the city, he lived in constant motion. Jeaner didn’t mind. She had long learned to celebrate the small pockets of time they shared, rather than complain about the spaces between them.

Tonight was special. She’d bought tickets to the jazz concert he once casually mentioned wanting to go to, and she had something even more important hidden in her sketchbook: a proposal.

Not a ring. Not a down-on-one-knee affair. Just words. A heartfelt letter asking if they were ready for forever—because she was. Kellan had seen her at her worst, and she’d loved him at his. They’d survived long-distance, job shifts, the loss of her father. If that wasn't love, what was?

At 9:30 p.m., the food sat cold on the table. Still no message.

She texted: Everything okay?

No reply.

She sighed and began tidying up. Reaching for his coat tossed carelessly over the armchair, she went to hang it up. Something clinked in the pocket. Curious, she reached inside and pulled out a small velvet box.

Her breath caught. A ring?

She opened it. It was delicate — rose gold with a sapphire at the center. Her heart fluttered. Maybe he’d had the same idea. Maybe tonight was fate folding in on itself, stitching two hearts into one promise.

Then her eyes caught the tag. A receipt.

Jeaner’s smile faltered as she unfolded the paper. The ring had been bought three days ago. The name on the gift note was not hers.

To Arielle. Forever, always, and more. -K.

She stood frozen, the air sucked out of her lungs. Arielle?

Her best friend. The one who had helped her plan Kellan’s surprise birthday just weeks ago. The same woman who cried with her when Jeaner’s dog died. The same woman who had always claimed she "wasn’t into Kellan like that."

Jeaner wanted to believe it was a mistake. A misunderstanding. But the evidence was undeniable. The trembling in her hands grew as she dug deeper into the pocket and found Kellan’s phone—unlocked.

There it was. Message after message. Photos. Voice notes. Kellan calling Arielle “his real muse.” Telling her things he hadn’t said to Jeaner in months.

Suddenly, the apartment felt foreign. Too many memories clung to the walls like smoke—ugly, choking. The dinner table she once called their ‘little haven’ now looked like a stage for her humiliation.

She put the phone down. Sat still for a long moment, hands in her lap, the ring box beside her.

No tears came. Only stillness. Deep, echoing stillness.

She looked around at everything they'd built — the bookshelves they painted together, the plant Kellan named Fernie, the couch with a tiny coffee stain from their first dinner party. All of it felt like a cruel joke now. A story written with invisible ink, where only one of them had believed in the plot.

She stood up and walked into the bedroom. Opened the closet. Pulled out a suitcase.

Inside, she packed only essentials — her sketchbook, a few clothes, her passport. She left the framed photo of them at the beach, her favorite mug, and the shoes Kellan had bought her for her birthday. Each item felt like a lie.

Before she left, she placed the ring box on the dining table — right beside the cold chicken. She scribbled a note:

“I found it. I found her. I found the truth. I hope she’s worth it.”

Then she walked out.

She didn’t go to her mother’s. Didn’t call her friends. She booked a late-night train out of the city with no real destination. When the conductor asked where she was heading, she blinked and chose the farthest name she recognized: Brightport.

A sleepy coastal town she once visited as a child. That was all she remembered — the sound of waves, a crooked lighthouse, and the taste of raspberry ice cream that dripped down her wrist faster than she could eat it.

It felt right. Distant. Safe.

The train rolled through the night like a lullaby for the broken-hearted. Jeaner didn’t sleep. She stared out the window, her reflection barely visible against the glass. She didn’t recognize herself. Not yet. But she hoped she would.

The morning light broke softly over Brightport. The town was still, almost like it was holding its breath. She stepped off the train with no one waiting, no destination but forward.

She checked into a small inn by the harbor. The old woman who ran it didn’t ask questions — just handed her a key and said, “Ocean view. Good for thinking.”

Jeaner nodded silently and climbed the stairs.

Her room smelled of salt and wood and something vaguely nostalgic. She opened the window, and the sea greeted her like an old friend. Waves curled and uncurling endlessly, steady and indifferent.

She watched for a long time. Then, finally, she cried.

She cried for the girl who believed love was enough. For the friend she’d trusted. For the man she would’ve given everything to. For the version of herself that had been shattered in a single night.

But beneath the sorrow, there was a tiny ember of something else. Not hope, not yet. But possibility. The tiniest whisper that maybe — just maybe — this was not an ending.

Just a beginning

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...~Bye~...

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