One. Four. Five.

A whole lot can change in seven years. I got a new name. New city. New history. I've told the same lies so many times that I am beginning to believe them myself. The lying itself was not hard, not at all. Through the constant repetition of the same lies, the story gets entrenched, and it then gets easy to fit the new ones in. The hard bit is at the beginning, when the foundational lies are still fresh, still part of a balancing act. The constant fear that one slip might bring the whole house down.

I know it is cliche, but it is the truth, the fear never goes away. On the good days, you get distracted and you forget your own past. You believe your own story and all is good. But the truth is always there. The fact that your heart perpetually skips a beat when hear your old name acts as a constant reminder. It is reflex. You wish you could ignore it, but you cannot.