Maya tried to call it "a small thing," but it didn't feel small.
Her neighbor, Mrs. Darnell, had asked if she could cover for her at the community newsletter. Maya said yes — but then panicked. What if I mess it up? What if everyone notices I don't know what I'm doing?
So she lied. A small lie. She told Mrs. Darnell she had already drafted half the newsletter, even though she hadn't written a word.
For a moment, the lie gave her power. Control. She could still be clever, still be capable.
But later, when she saw Mrs. Darnell scanning blank pages, eyebrows raised, Maya felt a twinge of nausea. She had lied to avoid embarrassment — and still, embarrassment found her anyway.
The taste of guilt lingered in her mouth. Not punishment. Not insight. Just shame, raw and unfiltered, creeping in like cold water through a cracked window.
The guilt brought memories. Childhood memories she had buried under ambition and resentment.
Elena, three years older, always perfect. High school awards, late-night tutoring, birthday parties where she had smiled at the awkward kids instead of rolling her eyes. Always polite, always correct.
And Maya… loud, jagged, trying to carve her brilliance out of the cracks of someone else's perfection. Punk rock against classical music. Noise against harmony.
She remembered the time she had set up a prank to make Elena look foolish at a family party — and Elena had turned it back on her so gracefully everyone clapped for the older sister. Maya had wanted to scream, but she had smiled, because everyone was watching.
Now she wondered if her younger self had already been training for this very disaster — her first taste of the bitter truth that cleverness without heart left a hollow ache.