“LA-LA-LA! I can’t hear you!”

“You haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Err, yeah.”
“Did something happen?”
“Umm, no.”
“Nothing. At all.”

We’re walking to the local chippy. For chips in curry sauce. With a buttered bread roll. In uniform the colour of baby poo. It’s spitting. London, 1987.

We met on day one. First year of high school. The year I felt worthy of grown-up friendships, bouffy-hair, crippling doubt and second-guessing. We sat next to each other. Every day. Inseparable.

Until one day, we weren’t.

I walked into the classroom. History. I looked for her and my seat next to hers. And there she was. Another Lisa. Also small, but blond.

In my spot. Taking my place.

I found another seat. I don’t remember where. Or beside who. But I’ll never forget how heavy my heart felt. How my spark fizzled. The weight of the world return. As my BFF dream, died.

They became inseparable. For the next six years. We never really spoke again. I guess she never had the need to. But I did. It played on my mind. Plagued me. Persisted.

But.

I never had the courage to ask what happened. To ask why?

So, I made up stories. Choosing falsity of fiction over the freedom of facts. Because that felt somehow safer. Than the shame. Or rejection being confirmed.

How often do we do this?

Proverbially putting our fingers in our ears whilst shouting “LA-LA-LA! I can’t hear you!” when being told a truth we don’t want to be told.

But it happens. All the time.

With your boss. In your family. From your partner.

Like yesterday. When my neighbour spoke to me after almost 10 years living next door each other. 15 minutes of genuine connection and meaningful conversation.

You see she never seemed to like me. From the day I moved in. No matter what I did to engage her. How nice I was. She gave me nothing. And avoided me.

But I never understood why?

So, I made up stories. Assumptions of what must have been over what had become. Because that somehow felt safer. Than the disappointment. The need to know.

Until.

3 months ago. I found out why. When she apologised for how she treated me. After I finally told her how it felt to never understand what I had done.

Turns out. Nothing. At all.

Because.

She too had made up stories. About me. That weren’t true. But she believed kept her safer. From being hurt. By letting others in.

Researchers. Those people not allowed to make up stories call it 'fundamental attribution error,' - creating stories about others' motives without checking. Studies show 70% of workplace conflicts stem from misconceptions one conversation could resolve.

10 years of unneighbourly silence and 40 years of school yard secrets led me to one universal truth:

The stories we tell ourselves about why people hurt us are usually wrong.

Yet.

We'd rather hold on to wrong stories than risk asking for the right ones.

Because fictional fear feels safer than braving the facts.

But the truth is never as scary as a story untold.

H2BH 044/365