2015 -- 8.1 (Fall) Fiction


By Megan Finsel

She was lying to me. I knew that because the truth was spelled out across her face. It was hypnotizing, in fact, how each word bled across her forehead. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Was I the only one who could see them? I couldn’t tell; no one else seemed to notice.

“I’m alright, a little tired…” she was saying. Maybe I had asked her how she was doing, I don’t remember. I just recall watching the words I’m exhausted appear and disappear on her cheek.

“…life has been treating me well, you know, and work has been fun.” she continued. “I couldn’t be happier.” I’m depressed spelled down her neck. My stomach twisted.
“My brother? Yeah, he’s good. Parents are doing well, too.” I could see sadness in her eyes, an unwanted emotion she was struggling to mask. I must have asked whether she was sure or not because she answered, “of course.” But her right arm spelled out no. I tried to smile as she did.

“Well, I’ll see you later.” she said with a wave and turned to leave, and I stood there watching as two words swirled down both of her legs.