The Liar’s Mark

When Ester woke up, her skin was aglow with scars. At first, she thought it must be the sunlight breaking through the blinds, casting strange patterns on her arms and neck. But when she stepped closer to the mirror, there they were—faint, shimmering lines, crisscrossing her skin like a secret map. Some were so faint they barely flickered, but others glowed brighter, red threads pulsing as though alive.

Ester had prided herself on her honesty. While others wore their glowing marks openly—reminders of small deceptions, unspoken truths, or bold-faced lies—her skin had always been clear. She had never been like them. Not a liar.

And yet, here they were. Her hands reached for the bathroom sink, gripping its edges for balance. She tried to think of a recent lie, something she’d said that might explain this. A harmless white lie, perhaps? But nothing came to mind.

She leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting her face. A single line stretched from the corner of her jaw to her temple, faint yet unmistakable. It burned softly, like an ember. She traced it with her fingertips and shivered at the warmth.

Her mind flitted through the past days, weeks—years. She tried to pinpoint a moment, an untruth, anything to explain why her once-pristine skin now bore these marks.

She stood back, staring at her reflection, the pale lines burning in the morning light. Slowly, pieces of her life came into focus, like fragments of an old, half-forgotten photograph.

There was the job offer for that dream marine biologist role on the other side of the world that she’d never dared to accept. “It’s too risky. Better to stick with something safe.” The faintest mark on her collarbone flickered now, a dull reminder of that choice.

There was the friend she had loved in silence, convincing herself it was better not to speak. “It would ruin everything,” she had told herself. But the truth was simpler: she had been afraid. The glowing scar on her wrist pulsed in response to the memory, faint yet persistent. There were countless moments like these. The job she took out of convenience, despite hating every minute of it. The opportunities she let slip by because she convinced herself she wasn’t ready. Each mark told a story, faint as whispers in the dark.

She sank down onto the edge of her bed, staring at her hands. The brightest mark ran the length of her forearm, and she knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t just one moment—it was the culmination of all the roads not taken.

The truth burned through her now, the glow of her marks impossible to ignore. They were a map of every compromise, every excuse, every self-deception. She had spent her life pretending she had made the right choices. But the marks didn’t lie.

Ester sat there for a long time, staring at the quiet fire etched into her skin. She didn’t know what came next, whether the marks would ever fade or if she would be forced to carry them forever.

But for the first time in years, she couldn’t look away from herself. She couldn’t pretend anymore.