I didn't go home that night.
I walked until my legs ached and my chest burned, until the streets blurred and the noise of passing cars drowned out the thoughts screaming in my head. I didn't know where I was going, I only knew I couldn't stay near them. Not Daniel. Not Tara. Not the life that had just cracked open in front of me.
By the time I finally stopped, I was sitting on a cold concrete bench outside a closed café, hugging my arms to myself. My phone buzzed nonstop in my bag, but I ignored it. I already knew who it was.
Daniel.
Eventually, the buzzing stopped. Then another notification came through.
Tara posted a story.
I don't know why I opened it. Maybe I was looking for proof that she felt even a fraction of the guilt I was drowning in. Or maybe I was punishing myself.
The photo showed her sitting on a couch, eyes red, face tilted slightly down, looking fragile. The caption read:
Sometimes you lose people you love just for choosing honesty.
I stared at the screen, my hands shaking.
Honesty.
She had turned herself into the victim already.
By the time I got home the next morning, exhaustion weighed heavy on my body. I barely noticed my mother sitting in the living room until she spoke.
"Where did you sleep last night?"
Her tone wasn't concerned. It was sharp.
"I went out," I said quietly.
She looked me over slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Daniel came here."
My heart skipped. "What?"
"He was worried," she continued. "Said you had an argument and stormed out. He said you've been acting strange lately."
Of course he did.
I dropped my bag by the door. "Did he also tell you he's been cheating on me with my best friend?"
Her eyes widened slightly, but not in shock. In hesitation.
"Tara?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied. "Tara."
She sighed, rubbing her temple. "I spoke to her too."
That felt like a slap.
"And?" I asked carefully.
"She said nothing inappropriate happened," my mother said. "That you misunderstood things and blew them out of proportion."
I laughed bitterly. "So you believe her?"
"I believe there are always two sides," she replied calmly. "You've been emotional lately."
Emotional.
That word again.
I felt my chest tighten. "I saw messages. I saw how they looked at each other."
My mother crossed her arms. "Messages can be misinterpreted. And looks don't ruin relationships. Attitudes do."
I stared at her, stunned. "You're blaming me?"
"I'm saying," she replied slowly, "that you shouldn't destroy your future over jealousy."
My future.
As if my heart was just a small inconvenience.
I turned away before she could see the tears threatening to spill. I locked myself in my room, sinking onto the bed as my phone buzzed again.
Daniel.
This time, I answered.
"Please," he said immediately, his voice low and tired. "Just listen to me."
"I listened last night," I replied. "You said nothing."
"That's not fair," he argued. "You didn't give me a chance to explain."
"Explain what?" I asked. "How you betrayed me? Or how you let Tara speak for you?"
He was silent for a moment. "I never planned to hurt you."
"That doesn't change the fact that you did."
He sighed. "You're making this bigger than it is."
I closed my eyes. "Then tell me the truth."
Another pause.
"Tara understands me," he finally said. "She listens. You've been distant lately."
I felt something inside me go cold.
"So this is my fault," I whispered.
"That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said."
Before he could respond, I hung up.
I dropped the phone beside me and stared at the ceiling, feeling hollow. Somewhere along the line, the people I trusted most had decided I was the problem. They had rewritten the story, and in their version, I was unstable, jealous, dramatic.
By evening, messages started coming in from relatives, mutual friends, even people I hadn't spoken to in months.
Is everything okay?
I heard you and Daniel are having issues.
Tara said you're not in a good place emotionally.
I stopped reading.
Everyone had a version. And none of them were mine.
Later that night, my aunt called.
"I don't want to interfere," she said gently, "but relationships require patience. Don't let pride ruin something good."
I thanked her and ended the call, my hands trembling.
That was when it hit me.
They weren't just doubting me.
They were choosing them.
I sat up slowly, wiping my face. If I kept trying to explain myself, I would keep bleeding. They had already decided who to believe.
And it wasn't me.
I picked up my phone and opened my notes app.
I typed one sentence:
I will no longer explain my truth to people committed to misunderstanding me.
For the first time since everything fell apart, I felt something close to clarity.
If this was how the story would be told, then fine.
But I would write the ending myself.
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