Whistle The Truth

He told me to whistle when I needed him as he hung the gold-plated cylindrical whistle around my neck. The chain it came with rested heavily on my shoulders, as though it were predicting the burden this whistle would bring in the days to come.
I believed him for a while, though we were nothing to each other. He wasn't married to me, bound by the invisible thread that ties two people together once you put on the rings on your fingers. He wasn't my boyfriend. He wasn't even my friend.
But stupidly, because I wanted to, I suppose, I still believed.
The fantasy created a bubble around me and my version of him.
"Just blow on the whistle," he said. "Never take it off," he said. "I'll be there when you need me," he said.

Lies.
Beautiful lies, all of them.
But in the end, still lies.

There were days that I wished that the lies would spin themselves into truths somehow. That he would finally see just how much I liked him - enough that a single word he said would make me cry.

But those days are over. I lost the whistle, whether intentionally or not, I cannot remember.

All I know is this: I will never cry over a boy again.