She cried when she begged if we could stay near. Said she couldn’t lose me fully. Her watery eyes resembled a child who lost her puppy.
So I agreed. Though every part of me shouted no.
We texted again. Casual stuff—funny memes, old episodes. It seemed oddly easy. When she invited me to her birthday celebration weeks later, I attended. There I met Dion. Her “coworker.”
Dion laughed easily and had a ridiculous gold tooth that sparkled when he smiled. We spoke for hours. No flirting—just vibing. I liked him. Maybe we might be pals.
Dion and I began dating two months later. Real dating. Not cunning. She knew. Said she was “totally fine with it.” She joked about officiating the wedding.
Her energy changed. She’d tag him in memes before me. Message him “just to vent.” Dion asked me to bring his phone over last weekend after leaving it at my house.
I used his spare key. Entering, called his name. In the shower.
I heard it then. Voice from his chamber. Loud. Laughing. Familiar. Frosted near the door.
His name she said. She said my. Like a joke.
What I saw on his laptop almost made me drop his phone as I approached. A video call. Recording saved. She was cross-legged on his bed wearing the birthday sweater I gave Dion.
Corner timestamp revealed it was from a few days ago.
She then clearly asked, “Do you think he knows yet?” into the camera. Together, they laughed.
I didn’t listen further. I carefully backed out, dropped his phone on the sofa, and left like a criminal.
I didn’t weep. I didn’t shout. I went back to my vehicle and sat with the engine running for 15 minutes, trying to understand what occurred.
Dion contacted later wondering whether I dropped the phone. I answered with a thumbs-up. Just couldn’t say anything else. Not yet.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I looped the footage in my brain. Her voice. She laughs. Her jokey pronunciation of my name.
I noticed all the tiny things I disregarded. How Dion always locked his phone after receiving a text. How she always knew where we went or what we did, even when I didn’t tell her.
They duped me. Tag-teaming. I felt like a reality show character, unaware of the cameras.
Next morning, I texted her. Three words: “I saw it.”
Within a minute, she answered. “Can we talk?”
Meeting her at the train station café was agreed upon. Neutral ground.
She wore sunglasses and a hoodie like a small star hiding from photographers. Sitting across from me, messing with straw.
“I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” she claimed. It simply happened.”
A chuckle. Loudly. “You didn’t mean to sit on his bed, wear his hoodie, and record yourself laughing at me?”
Her wince. We weren’t mocking you. We got caught up.”
“In what? Betrayal? Humiliation?”
“I still care about you,” she muttered. “So this hurts.”
I stood and replied, “No.” “Getting caught hurts.”
I left her with her cappuccino and apologies. That night I blocked her number. And Dion’s.
I stayed home for two weeks. I avoided our shared acquaintances, binge-watched documentaries, and worked from home.
In strange ways, mending occurs.
One night, my neighbor’s cat became entangled in a tree. She asked me to tea after I helped her lower him. Marla was a therapy student. They discussed pain, limits, and why individuals repeat patterns until 1 a.m.
It lacked romance. Simply honest.
This talk made me feel human again. Seen.
After many days, I unfollowed Dion and my ex on social media. Peace, not anger. Like I wasn’t carrying their weight anymore.
A strange event occurred. A girl called Kendra messaged me. She had a strange narrative about seeing my name in Dion’s tagged images.
Meeting for coffee was arranged.
She dated Dion too. My overlap. He said he was being generous by remaining in contact since I was his “ex who couldn’t let go”.
She found out after seeing the same film on his laptop as me.
Except she made me the punchline. He joked, “She really thinks we’re serious,” to my ex. “It’s like seeing someone get scammed.”
Kendra and I gazed at each other across the table, astonished. Then we laughed. All the insanity. The brazenness.
We struck a deal—not retribution or drama—that day. It’s true.
We contacted other females in his tagged postings. Webs unraveled one by one. Dion managed five ladies at once. And my ex? She managed it—not simply complicit. Creating alibis. Keeping us apart.
Truth has a swift repercussions.
A girl shared her experience in a lengthy thread online without identities. The virality was limited yet powerful. People share posts with “Been there” and “Trash behavior.”
Dion disabled all accounts. My ex claimed victimhood too. None of us believed it.
There was no need for retaliation. Watching their house of cards fall was gratifying.
And I? Finally began treatment. Weekly sessions, no skips.
I learnt “staying friends” with a hurtful person isn’t honorable. It hinders healing.
I realized that trust is about consistency, not length of time. You can’t love someone into good behavior.
Most significantly, I realized they don’t close. The narrative ends when you decide.
We still have tea discussions with Marla. We established a small group chat for post-breakup uncertainty and narcissist rehab with Kendra, who became a friend. We call it “The Exit Plan.”
It’s strange how my deepest betrayal led me to those who restored my confidence in others.
I passed the café where my ex sat in her hoodie, crying, last week. There was no tingle. No rage. No regrets. Just distance. Like someone else’s life.
That may be the biggest triumph.
Because forgiveness doesn’t necessarily mean “It’s okay.” Sometimes it’s about letting go and not letting it define you.
Ask yourself this if you’re considering staying friends with someone who destroyed your heart:
Are they healing you or keeping you hostage?
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