Quornelius Radford and the Girl Who Lied About Her Name

They say names don’t lie. But she did. And that was how it all started.

I met her at a bus stop where no buses ever came on time. She sat cross-legged on the metal bench, reading a secondhand book like it held the code to another life. The moment I sat beside her, she looked up, smiled too easily, and said, "You look like a Quornelius."

"That’s because I am," I said. "Quornelius Radford."

She tilted her head. "No one’s named Quornelius. You’re lying."

"I wish I was. My mother loved ancient-sounding names. Said it made me sound expensive."

She laughed and stuck out her hand. "I’m June."

But she wasn’t.

I didn’t find out her real name until it was etched into a marble headstone.

That bus stop became our place. Neither of us ever caught a ride just stories. She told me she worked at a flower shop, hated lavender, and was saving to move to Greece. I told her I worked nights cleaning offices, played guitar badly, and had a twin brother I hadn’t spoken to in three years.

Every week, she'd have a different book. Sometimes she quoted them, sometimes she scribbled in the margins like she was editing the author's life. She talked like a person running out of time but trying not to show it.

I never asked why she was always at that stop, or where she really went after. I thought not asking gave her space. Or maybe I was afraid she'd vanish if I knew too much.

The truth is, we never exchanged numbers. Never even took a picture. It felt like naming it would ruin it.

But real things vanish too, don't they?

She missed two Tuesdays. I waited in silence, watching empty buses sigh by. On the third, I brought a book—hers, one she’d left behind by mistake. Her notes were still in the margins. Next to a passage that read "Everyone disappears eventually,” she had written:

“Not if you remember them loud enough.”

The woman at the flower shop didn’t know a June. Said someone who matched her description used to come in for peonies and never paid full price. They called her Lena.

That led me to an old Facebook profile. Lena Simone. No posts in months. But there were photos one of her at a protest, one of her in front of the library, and one holding a guitar I’d never seen her play.

There was also an obituary.

Lena Simone, age 25. Died in her sleep. Complications from a condition I’d never heard her mention.

I went to her funeral. Didn’t talk to anyone. Just stood in the back and stared at her name. The name she never told me.

It’s strange, mourning a person you never really knew. But in a way, I think I knew her better than some of the crying faces up front.

She told me stories. I don’t know how many were true, but I remember all of them.

She told me once, "People always wait to be remembered when they're gone. I want to be remembered while I’m still here."

So, here I am, remembering.

I go back to that bench sometimes, especially when it rains. I read aloud from the books she loved. I leave flowers, but never lavender.

Sometimes, strangers sit beside me. They ask who I’m waiting for. I smile and say, "A girl who lied about her name, but told the truth about everything else."

If this story stayed with you even for a moment tell someone about it. Not because I need the likes or the numbers. But because maybe Lena still wants to be remembered.

Drop a comment, share a thought, or just whisper her name once.

That’s all she ever wanted, really.

Not forever. Just loud enough to echo.

— Quornelius