The Clock Only Ticks When I Lie

They gave me the clock when I turned twelve. A strange inheritance from my grandmother—old, brass-framed, with hands that shimmered like gold in sunlight.

But it didn’t tick.

Not until I told my first lie.

“I didn’t break the vase,” I whispered, eyes wide, heart pounding.

Tick.

It startled me. The room had been silent. The clock had been dead for years. But in that moment, it moved. A single, sharp tick, as if awakening.

I stared at it. Then I said, “I cleaned my room.”

Tick.

From that day forward, I understood something terrifying: the clock only ticked when I lied.

At first, it was a novelty. I’d test it with small lies:

“I’m not tired.”

Tick.

“I don’t care what she said.”

Tick.

But it wasn’t just sound. Every tick carried something. A pull. A pressure in the air. Like time itself was reacting.

Eventually, I stopped lying. Completely.

But life doesn’t let you be that honest.

At seventeen, my best friend Julia asked, “You think he cheated on me?”

I knew he had. I saw it. But I looked into her tearful eyes and said, “No. He wouldn’t do that to you.”

Tick.

Then another.

Tick. Tick.

The hands spun forward—ten seconds. My stomach turned.

Something was changing.

The clock didn’t just tick anymore.

It moved time.

Every lie pushed the hands forward. Every truth made it freeze.

By nineteen, I tested it once more. I sat in front of it, heart racing, and whispered a full sentence of pure honesty:

“I miss my mom. I still cry in secret.”

Nothing. The second hand froze. The room felt... still.

Then I said, “I’m okay.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Fifteen seconds gone.

And with each second lost, I noticed something strange — moments of my life vanishing. I couldn’t remember the way my mom’s voice sounded anymore. Or what song she used to sing at night.

My lies were erasing my past.

At twenty-three, I tried to live truthfully again. But it cost me jobs. Relationships. People don’t want raw honesty.

So I learned to lie selectively.

Until him.

His name was Sam. Quiet, thoughtful, and always a bit curious. He once pointed at the clock on my shelf and asked, “Why do you keep that old thing?”

I paused. I wanted to tell him. But I said, “It’s just a decoration.”

Tick. Tick.

Then came the day he told me he loved me. And I, terrified of ruining something so rare, whispered, “I love you too.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock spun wildly.

That night, he asked, “Where did we meet again?”

He had forgotten.

My lie stole it.

I ran to the clock, heart thudding, and begged, “Please stop. Please. I didn’t mean it.”

Tick.

Sam’s voice behind me: “What didn’t you mean?”

I turned, tears streaming. “I lied. I didn’t love you. Not then. I wanted to. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to be alone.”

Silence.

The clock froze.

Then slowly, ticked backward.

One second. Two. Three.

That’s when I knew: a painful truth could return what a lie took away.

So I told him everything.

Every little lie I’d ever told him. Why I said them. What I feared. The way I used the clock like a crutch, like a curse.

By morning, the clock was still.

Time had settled.

So had he.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” he said. “But at least now I know you.”

Now, I teach myself to speak truth, even when it aches.

I tell the world I’m broken.

I tell myself I’m healing.

I tell the clock nothing at all.

It hasn’t ticked in months.

And I’m finally okay with silence.