He wonders why he didn't tell her.
He remembers he face. Eyes wide like roses; glittering with tears (or maybe it was just the sun, some dust in her eyes. He hopes so- he hate to see her cry. Her teeth biting her lips, holding onto his words, pinning them down, staining them with vowels, constants dripping down her mouth; clogging her throat with his lies. And then he knew she knew he lied.
His words pushed her away as though they'd turned his atom from a positive to a negative, propelling him indefinitely from her negatively charged atom. After that day, her eyes skirted over his like oil over water, glazing past him to settle elsewhere.
And even now, the lie rolled off his tongue so easily. But what did he expect- after telling the lie for so long, he'd started to believe it.