Honesty Poetry の小説・ストーリー

But that’s about it. Her nose had wrinkled, and her eyes had narrowed. If looks could kill, I would be dead. “I’m just being honest. Rather pride myself on being honest. You know to be free of deceit and untruthfulness; sincere. I’m sure it’s a foreign concept to someone that can’t even tell a man her real name.” I sighed, running my hands over my face and into my hair, pulling at my topknot.

"The piece is about the honesty of trying. The trying is the content. The failure to fully arrive is the conclusion. The piece will not pretend to have achieved what it cannot achieve. The piece will document the approach, the partial successes, the moments of near-arrival, the distance that remains at the end." "Honesty is an achievement," Ernest said. Don looked at him. "Yes," he said. "Honesty is the achievement. The piece that pretends to have the inside account is a lie. The piece that documents the attempt is true. The truth is in the documentation of the distance, not in the claim of its elimination."

“You think guilt will buy you a place here?” “I think honesty might.” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. He gave a humorless laugh. “Since when have you ever been honest?” “Since I lost everything.” I said. “And since I no longer have anything else to lose, I don’t want to be caught up in whatever nonsense everyone has to throw at me.”

He handed me a bottle of water and sat down beside me on the wooden floor. I asked, “Do you ever get tired of seeing beauty in everything?” He smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But then I remember that beauty isn’t always what’s perfect. Sometimes it’s what’s honest even when it hurts.” I turned that over in my mind. “I think I’ve been writing scared,” I admitted. “Afraid to be honest. Afraid to feel too much.” “Maybe honesty is exactly what your story needs,” he said gently. “Even if it’s messy.”

“We can’t predict every angle, but honesty is our strength. That’s what will protect you.” Honesty. It sounded simple, but honesty was layered. Do I tell them about every threat, every letter, every time I woke in the night certain I’d heard a car outside the house? Do I lay bare my past, my escape, the years I lived in fear? Honesty was my armor, but it was also my softest part.

I felt the words hit before I could defend myself. “That’s unfair,” I said. “It’s true,” he said. “You didn’t want to confront it, so you didn’t. But avoiding something doesn’t make it disappear. It just waits.” “Like what?” I snapped. “A ghost?” “If you like,” he said mildly. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. That calm, factual tone — the same one he used when correcting a student’s essay — it cut through me worse than yelling ever could. “Do you even hear yourself?” I asked. “You talk about honesty like it’s a currency. Like everything has to be earned. I’m tired, Tristan. Tired of being measured.”

This is exactly how it starts and you know it and you are standing here anyway. "What makes conversation good to you, Lord Brocandale?" I asked, and the use of his title felt like the last formal gesture of a woman who was rapidly running out of formal gestures to hide behind. Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something more considered than that. "Honesty," he said. "But that's a rare commodity at gatherings like these." "Then you must be sorely disappointed tonight." "Not yet," he murmured.

It is plain to see that even the littlest things can get me killed here. “Okay.” I try my hardest to hold my chin up high. I don’t want him to think that he has broken me yet. I will never be broken, though. I’ve lost far too much in my life to be ashamed of anything. “Good. Things like that can get you killed here. Always be honest. Always.” His eyes grow softer, and an understanding settles over me. Honesty is huge with him. I store that information away, knowing that is something I need to keep front and center.

No need to rush into it. Guilt threatens to choke me when I reread the lines I wrote. The white lie mocks me, I turn off the radio playing in the background and stare out the window into the empty lot. He was honest with me, I owe him that much. My chest rises and falls, I tug on my ponytail one last time and resume writing, determined to be honest. We don’t know each other, I can get away with telling him whatever I want. Plus, I trust him.