My first boyfriend was fixing bazooka speakers into the back seat of his car and I decided to hang out there. In front of the things. To this day, I don’t know what I was doing there. I didn’t even liked that car, it wasn’t comfortable and I could’ve been doing anything else. But there I was.
He left to go inside and as I was trying to get comfortable I slipped and my hand hit one of the speaker covers. It sank on one side and left it lopsided. It couldn’t be fixed.
When he came back and I saw it I was outside the car and I told him I didn’t knew what happened. That it wasn’t me. His brother called him and when he came back he said “my brother says he saw you hitting the speaker, tell me if you ruined it, I won’t get angry, I just want you to tell me the truth”.
And then I lamely lied to his face. I refused to accept that it had been me. I remember feeling like I didn’t want to carry that burden because I couldn’t fix what I had done. I couldn’t replace the speaker and I couldn’t be the one to ruin something that he wanted so badly and had worked so hard to get.
So I lied. Even though there was no way he could believe me, I told him what I wanted to hear. I felt physically sick for days after whenever I remembered what I did, but I never told him the truth.
There. Off my chest now.