When my boyfriend, Jace, said he was sick and stopped texting, I rushed to help. What I found broke my trust and turned my life upside down. Days later, an unexpected visitor arrived, and together, we transformed betrayal into a powerful new beginning that changed me for the better.
I’m Kate, and one crisp fall day, I sat in my warm apartment, staring at my phone. Jace hadn’t come by in days, blaming exhaustion, but his excuses felt wrong. I called him, my stomach in knots. “Hey,” he answered, sounding groggy. “Sorry, I was asleep. I’m sick—maybe a fever.” He coughed loudly, then hurried off. “I’ll text later.” The call cut off, leaving me worried. If he was unwell, I couldn’t do nothing. I grabbed my coat, set on helping. At the store, I bought bananas, tea, and cough drops, picturing his smile when I showed up.
At his building, I took the elevator, the grocery bag heavy. When the doors opened, my heart stopped. Jace stood there, arms around a woman I didn’t know, their closeness undeniable. “Not so sick, are you?” I said, my voice sharp. Jace paled, stepping back. “Kate, I can explain!” I held up a hand. “Don’t.” I threw the groceries at him, apples spilling, and walked away, my chest tight with anger. He didn’t follow, and I was relieved. He wasn’t worth my tears.
Days passed with no word from Jace—no call, no text, no apology. The silence stung, keeping me stuck in hurt. I needed closure, so I texted him to meet at our old café, where we’d shared our first date. At 6 p.m., I sat in our booth, the smell of coffee heavy. By 8 p.m., he hadn’t shown. His text arrived: “I can’t see you sad.” I stared, furious. He cheated, yet played the victim? My anger surged.
When I got home, I froze. The woman from the elevator stood at my door, looking nervous. “What do you want?” I demanded. She spoke softly. “I’m Ashley. I need to talk.” I glared. “I’m done with Jace. Take him.” She shook her head. “I don’t want him. I see his lies now, and I thought you’d get it.” Curiosity won, and I let her in. “Fine, come in.”
Over wine, Ashley shared her story. “Jace said you were mean, ignored him, flirted with others. I thought he’d pick me.” I scoffed. “He did that to me—made me feel small while cheating.” We’d both been tricked. “He can’t just walk away,” Ashley said, her eyes fierce. “Let’s make him squirm.” Knowing Jace’s homophobia, we planned our revenge.
We created fake dating profiles for Jace, using his photos and messaging men, setting up visits to his place. We posted his number online for late-night calls. His frantic texts—“Why is this happening?”—made us laugh. The final touch was a billboard with his face, saying, “Seeking a man to cherish.” Seeing it up was a rush. Jace begged us to stop, so I asked for money for a Spain trip. When he paid, I texted, “Sorry, the profiles are stuck, and the billboards run for weeks.”
We blocked him and flew to Spain, landing in sunny warmth. On the beach, sipping sangria, Ashley grinned. “Best plan ever.” I clinked her glass, smiling. I’d lost a liar but gained a true friend. The trip was a fresh start, and I felt alive again.
