Two weeks before getting married, my best friend confessed that she was the reason my boyfriend proposed to me in the first place. Honestly, I don’t know what to do. For days, I haven’t slept well because of this. So, while I put on some makeup, I’ll tell you everything. My wedding is in 10 days, and last Saturday was my bachelorette party with all my friends.

My best friend, whose name is Carla, let’s call her Carla, organized everything. The party, the outings, everything. We went out dancing, drinking, we danced with everyone. had an amazing time and I was honestly very happy to be marrying the love of my life. Let’s call him Juan. Juan and I have been together for 3 years.

After the party, everyone left and it was just Carla and me in the Airbnb because we were staying overnight. I wasn’t that drunk, so I helped her clean up the mess. While we were tidying, she was unusually quiet. At the party, she’d been so excited, dancing non-stop, so it was strange to see her so silent. I said, “Hey, do you want me to finish here? Go rest if you want.

She left for the bedroom and I stayed in the kitchen. A little later, she came back and told me she needed to talk. That’s when she apologized and said she never thought Juan would actually propose because apparently it all started as a bet gone wrong. Imagine how confused I was. I asked her to please explain and she said that when I introduced them, they already knew each other.

The bet was that if he convinced me to say yes to marriage, she would date him exclusively. Apparently, they were seeing each other on the sly even before I knew him. They had a toxic on andoff relationship, and at some point, they split. She told him he could do whatever he wanted, and that’s when he met me.

I asked, “Why are you telling me this now?” She said she felt horrible and never wanted to hurt me, that it wasn’t entirely her fault, and that she had tried to talk to Juan so they could both come clean, but he refused. Said it was stupid and in the past, and that he was supposedly really in love with me. I obviously asked if she still had feelings for him and she said yes.

She said that only now seeing him in a serious relationship with me, she realized the kind of man he is and that she truly still loves him. I immediately asked, “Does he know you feel this way?” She said no, that she never told him, but that if I allowed it, she’d like to tell him about her feelings. At that point, I had no energy to fight or argue, so I just left.

I haven’t told anyone yet, not my family or my friends. And I haven’t spoken to Juan because he’s on his bachelor trip with his friends, so I can’t see him and confront him. I’ve been thinking about it constantly, and I don’t know what to do. She hasn’t contacted me either, and I figure she hasn’t told Juan because if she had, he would have said something and he’s been acting normal, like nothing happened.

I feel so strange, betrayed. Imagine not being able to believe what’s happening. I truly never thought I could still be surprised after everything. That morning, I woke up late. For the first time in months, there was no rush, no event to plan, no lies to uncover. Outside, the city hummed its usual noise. But inside my apartment, it felt like time was suspended, as if the air had become thick water, making me move slowly.

Barefoot, I stepped onto the balcony. There were flowers on the floor, a half-wilted bouquet tossed near the door, a red ribbon still around the stems, no card, no signature, no name. I looked around. Nothing. No one in the hallway, no shadows. Of course, this building has no cameras. This is Buenosire, not a Netflix show.

I picked up the bouquet. The smell was sweet and cloying. Roses and something else, maybe carnations, flowers chosen by someone who obviously didn’t know me. I threw them in the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet, watched the stems swirl under the water like remnants of a bad memory. I didn’t feel anger, just unease.

I looked at my phone. 14 unread messages, none from Carla or Juan, but there was one from an unknown number, a single line. Sometimes the truth is just the first layer. I deleted it right away, but it stuck with me. It wasn’t fear or anger, more like that drop of water behind your ear you can never fully wipe off.

In the afternoon, I went out wanting to walk, breathe different air, do something besides remembering how my name was now a dinner table story. One of those that starts with, “Did you hear?” and ends with a sigh. Halfway down the block, I recognized a face. Felipe, one of Juan’s friends, not super close, but close enough to have been at the engagement dinner.

He walked quickly with headphones on, pretending not to see me. I did the same, but he stopped. Failen? I turned. Hey, Felipe. He took off his headphones, looking like he hadn’t slept, sporting a scruffy beard and anxious eyes. I saw you and wasn’t sure if I should say hi. You should, but you can leave it at hello if you want.

He gave a nervous laugh. You okay? Better than Juan? Felipe shrugged, uncomfortable. He’s a wreck. But well, yeah. Yeah, what? He hesitated, then said something that made me pause. It’s not like he was the only one with secrets. What do you mean? Forget it, he muttered. Felipe. He ran a hand through his hair, lowered his voice.

A few months ago, before the proposal, we went out, Juan was acting strange, drank too much, and mentioned some guy, a name I didn’t know, an ex of Carla’s, but someone Juan knew from before. It was weird. tense. Did he say the name? I don’t remember. He said something like that guy’s always been lurking.

No matter who Carla’s with, he’s around and she knows it but uses it. And Juan, he was really upset. Said once he saw the guy following you two in a car, didn’t say anything because he thought it was paranoia. My mouth went dry. Really? Yeah. And then he said, “And if she ever looks at him again, I’m going to lose it.” We fell silent.

The street lights were already on. Cars driving by as if none of this existed. Do you think he’s still around? I don’t know, Vilen, but if someone left you those flowers, watch yourself. Some people hate you. Some admire you. And sometimes it’s the same person. He looked at me like he expected a reaction, but I had none.

Just gave a nod. He slipped his headphones back on and disappeared into the night. I returned home, opened my laptop, typed in names, poked around social media, tried to recall old conversations with Carla about exes she described like episodes of a show she wanted to forget. One name came up repeatedly. Romero private profile, three photos, no faces, just a lowercase bio.

What isn’t told will repeat the same tone as that text. My fingers went cold. Romero wasn’t just any ex. He was her first. The one Carla said she could never truly quit. The one who might be back. The question that pinned me like a needle to the chest was, “Did he come back for her or for me?” And more haunting.

What does he know that I don’t? A poorly timed smile upsets me more than almost anything. And hers was perfect for that. Too white, too calm, like nothing ever hurt her. Juan’s mother texted me on Thursday around noon. Too cordial for my taste. Hi, Veilen. I know these days can’t have been easy for you.

I’d love to meet for coffee when you have time. Just a chat. No judgment. Kisses. No judgment. She wrote as if she hadn’t spent the last 3 years sizing me up with that private clinic gaze of hers. The kind that pretends to be kind, but weighs more than a medical diagnosis. I waited hours to reply, not because I lacked words, but because I wasn’t sure if it was worth seeing her.

In the end, morbid curiosity won. I wouldn’t pass up the chance to see up close the woman who raised Juan. And if I learned anything, it’s that rotten roots always smell the same. Tomorrow at 4 p.m. at Nenina, if that’s okay. I prefer a public place. I didn’t give her an option, she replied with a smiley face.

On Friday, I dressed simply. Black pants, a white blouse, my hair in a ponytail, almost a uniform. It wasn’t a date or a war, but I prepared as if it were both. She was already seated when I arrived. Of course, women like her are always early, not to avoid lateness, but to watch other people walk in.

Valentina, she said, standing up to give me a kiss. Her perfume was expensive, overpowering, the kind meant to stick to you whether you like it or not. I sat without kissing her back. She ordered two coffees without asking, a gesture that infuriated me. That presumption she could still control my life as if the last few days hadn’t happened.

I’m glad you came, she said, crossing her legs gracefully. I know this must be so hard for you. It isn’t over yet. Her smile faltered a bit. What do you mean? The story? The official version? It’s not fully told. And that’s tiring. She nodded like she was dealing with a difficult patient. Juan’s been very down, she said in a softer voice.

I didn’t answer. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. He feels awful. Does that make him innocent? I stared at her. No, obviously not. But he’s human. Being human doesn’t make him a victim. She went quiet for a second, placed her napkin neatly in her lap. I’m not here to justify him. I just want to talk, then talk.

The waitress brought the coffees, and she added sweetener like it was a sacred ritual. Did you love him? The question startled me. Yes. Then why ruin him like this? Ruin was her word. As if I’d thrown a bomb into the church. As if my reaction was equivalent to what he did. I didn’t ruin him. I exposed him.

There’s a big difference between breaking something and pulling a sheet off what’s already rotten. Her smile flickered. Valentina, we all make mistakes. Sure, but not everyone makes bets with someone they claim to love or sleeps with their partner’s best friend while whispering, “I love you.” She lowered her gaze, but her voice stayed calm.

Carlo was always a delicate subject. How long have you known? She looked at me. Known what? About them? That they never really ended? That they were closer than you all admitted. She didn’t respond. You already knew, right? You’re too clever for me to lie, Veilen. Yes, I always suspected. And you kept quiet.

What could I do? Destroy my son’s life. No, you could have protected another woman. the one you supposedly wanted as a daughter-in-law. But yeah, that’s not in your family definition, is it? Her sweet facade vanished. You’re crossing a line. No, I’m just calling things by their name. I sipped my lukewarm coffee. So, what do you want now? My regret? My return? No, I just want you to understand that Juan is not a monster.

He messed up, got swept up, and had no idea how to escape the trap he set himself. and Carla. Carla is intense. I scoffed. So, you label someone who lies, manipulates, and craves attention like a six-year-old as intense? She returned my stare. You’re not innocent, Valentina. You liked the show, too. That stung, but I didn’t show it. Maybe I did.

Maybe I liked thinking my life had meaning, that my story with Juan was a sweet movie. But it wasn’t. It was theater written by him, by Carla, and by all of you. She studied me more closely, searching for a crack. I’m not your enemy, she said. No, but you’re not my friend either. Never were. I leaned forward slightly.

Juan didn’t happen to meet me. It was set up. You all sat in the audience clapping. Now that the play’s over, you come talking about compassion. She narrowed her eyes, dropping the gentle act. She finally spoke plainly. Juan will recover. So will you. But what you did, you’ll carry forever. You mean the truth? The way you showed it.

I’m glad I did it my way because for once, no one can smile and lie to me again. I placed money on the table even though I knew she’d insist on paying. I stood. Thanks for the coffee, Valentina. Yes. Just one more question. I turned. Do you still love him? I looked at her and considered making a sarcastic remark, but I gave her the truth. I’m not sure I ever did.

She nodded as though realizing I was no longer the same person. Stepping outside, the sun h!t my face like a mild slap. I inhaled deeply. My hands weren’t shaking. My heart wasn’t pounding. A cold but crystal clearar thought filled my head. If his mother knew, who else knew? And worse, what else would they hide to protect the family name? Sometimes I wonder if Carla was always like this or if she became like this to survive.

After everything, city hall, the dinner, the meticulously retouched photos, I expected her to do what she always did when she lost control. Vanish, reinvent herself, move to a different neighborhood with new friends and a new haircut. But no. A week after the scandal, I got a message from her. It was short, emotionless. I need to see you. It’s important.

It’s not what you think. Tell me when. I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because Carla couldn’t give up on making herself look better in the final retelling. It’s not what you think. As if words alone could fix an emotional crime. I waited 3 hours to reply. Tomorrow, 5:00 p.m., the usual spot.

By usual spot, I meant an almagro cafe where we’d once cried together over silly things. It felt like the right place for a final reckoning. She arrived on time, dressed in black, lacking her usual makeup, wearing flats, no perfume, just Carla, or what remained of her. She sat across from me without a greeting. She looked at me, her lips trembling.

Thanks for coming. I didn’t come for you, she nodded, finally understanding. I’m not going to apologize, she said. I know it doesn’t help. Good. Saves us the performance. She paused, then said something unexpected. Someone’s following me. I remained silent. I’m not imagining it. Weird messages, photos of me in places I’ve never posted about.

Screenshots of old stuff. Once after the gym, there was an envelope on my windshield that said, “You have a nice face, too.” I didn’t laugh because I believed her. So, what do you want from me? I don’t know. I’m not sure if it’s you. I doubt it, but someone’s toying with me. Just you? With us? I didn’t like that. I’m out of the game, Carla.

Are you sure? She shot me a look that sometimes seemed all knowing, sometimes clueless. Have you received anything? Flowers and a cryptic text. That’s all. Same for me. But with times and places I’ve been, things nobody else knows. Pictures? She nodded and took a white envelope from her bag.

Inside were three photos. One of her on a park bench reading alone. Another of her leaving her building in a sweatshirt I once gave her. And the third a shot that froze my bl00d. It was of us from four years ago at a costume party. I was Freda Ko. She was Cleopatra. The unsettling detail was the angle taken from the back stairway near the patio where nobody else had gone. Or so we thought. I looked up.

Where did you get this? Someone left it in my mailbox. I rubbed my face. my stomach turning sour. Do you think it’s Juan? No, he isn’t capable of that kind of methodical cruelty. Nico, Nico doesn’t care enough to stalk me. He only wanted to mess with you and he left when he realized you wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

So, who is it? Carla’s voice dropped. Romero. His name h!t me like a hammer. Are you sure? Not certain, but I sense it. I tried looking for him, but he’s invisible online. Just an old email, but I know his style. How he leaves clues so you feel close. Never sure. What did you do to him? I broke his heart twice. Silence. So now what? I said.

Carla reached over to touch my hand. I pulled away immediately. Don’t expect forgiveness. I’m not looking for it. I know I don’t deserve it, but this is bigger than us. What are you suggesting? That we work together? I laughed, not to mock, but at the absurdity. You and me bonding over trauma. Bonding over a shared enemy. No, I don’t want you near me.

If someone’s following me, I’ll figure it out alone. I don’t need your lies in my ear while you pretend to help. Her eyes welled up, but she managed not to cry. Failen, there’s more. I looked at her, annoyed, but waiting. I got a message about you. What did it say? She took out her phone. It was an email from an untraceable address.

Not everything she said was true. There are things Carla doesn’t even know. Be careful. Families have skeletons, too. A chill washed over me. What does that mean? No idea, but someone’s digging. I stayed silent. Carla stood up. You won’t forgive me. I know. But if this all blows up, I don’t want it to h!t us both because we’re too busy fighting.

She gave me one last look. Take care. And she was gone. I didn’t move for a while. My coffee was cold. I stared again at the photos, especially the party one we never knew existed. And I realized there’s no worse enemy than someone who doesn’t want you dead, but wants to watch you bleed slowly. I’m not one for signs, but sometimes coincidences look too much like fate.

That night, I didn’t sleep and didn’t try. I sat in my dark kitchen, phone on airplane mode, no new messages or emails. Yet, the air felt charged, as if something brushed my back. Though I was alone, my place had never felt so full of silence. Then I thought of Nico, a stray idea buzzing in my mind. Nico, Carla’s ex, had helped me gather pieces when I needed them, sending me files, screenshots, drunken audios of Carla that let me expose their lies. But he’d also enjoyed it too much.

He wasn’t about justice. He wanted to see them burn. I wondered if maybe he’d kept the story going, writing new chapters on his own. I looked for him on Instagram, private account, Facebook, nothing. But I remembered an old email he’d used once to send me Carla’s secret audios. I searched my inbox for 10 minutes until I found it.

Subject line: What I promised is here. I replied without thinking. I need to see you today. No tricks. He answered in under 5 minutes. Plaza midnight. Don’t bring anyone. The man had style. I’d give him that. I threw on jeans, a jacket, sneakers, nothing attention-grabbing, and left quietly, though I had no one to hide from.

The city at that hour was different. Empty yet heavy. I walked without headphones, phone in my pocket for safety, not paranoia. I found him on a concrete bench by the flag pole, smoking something that wasn’t a cigarette. I sat about a meter away, no greeting. “You came,” he said. “I hate unfinished endings,” I answered. He smirked without looking at me.

What do you want? Was it you? What? The flowers, the messages, the photos. Are you behind it? He let out a rough laugh. Why assume I have that much free time? Your resentment, your ego, your god complex. He glanced sideways. It wasn’t me, though. I’d have liked it. You’re lying. He shrugged.

Everything I did back then helped you. Admit it. Without me, you’d still see Carla as the victim and Juan as just a clueless boyfriend. I never asked you to continue. How do you know if I did or didn’t? That comment made me freeze. Did you? He didn’t answer directly. I just opened a door. Then things get messy on their own. I stared.

Are you threatening anyone? No. But if someone felt a fraction of what I felt with Carla, that would be enough. You’re as sick as they are. No. I’m tired of seeing them always land on their feet, manipulate, laugh, ruin other people, then post sad songs and self-help quotes on social media. I stood.

You don’t want justice. You want revenge. The untraceable kind, don’t you? His question struck like a knife. I stopped in my tracks. You loved orchestrating this, controlling it, planning it. You just did it more neatly. I couldn’t find words. I’m not your enemy, Veilen, but I’m not your friend either. If you want to know who’s behind this, it’s not me.

Then who? Someone who knows your story. Romero, maybe? Or someone who wants you to think it’s him? How are you so sure? Because a week ago, I got this. He showed me his phone. A picture of me in my apartment lying on the couch with my laptop, blinds half lowered, taken from the street. A lump rose in my throat.

Who sent it? No idea. unknown number. I didn’t show you before because I figured you’d handle it better than Carla. Why? Tell me now. If someone’s stalking all three of us, I want to know where I stand. I hate surprises. He stood. A piece of advice. What is it? Don’t underestimate Carla. Not even now. An animal that’s cornered sometimes bites hardest.

He left and I remained by the flagpole clanking in the wind. Darkness, trees, silence everywhere. But for the first time, I felt we weren’t alone. If Nico wasn’t lying, someone else was watching. Always. Hosting an art exhibit might sound like a stunt. A quirk from the girl who canceled her wedding so dramatically.

That’s what people said, that I was just hungry for attention, wanting to end the saga with flare. But they didn’t understand because no one knew the real title of the show. The invitation read, “Open letters for those who couldn’t read at a small gallery in Santelmo. white walls, concrete floors, harsh overhead lighting with a tight guest list and names required at the door.

I invited everyone, Juan, Carla, Lucia, Felipe, my parents, some of Juan’s friends, even Sandra, the wedding planner. I didn’t invite Nico, but of course, he came. It was the type of event that would keep him entertained for weeks. The gallery opened at 8. I arrived early, not to prep anything, but to observe. I wore a simple black dress, no glitter, no makeup, only red lipstick, my period at the end of the sentence.

Guests trickled in, each greeting strained and awkward. How nice to see you. Everything okay? Lies and fancy perfume. Lucia was the first to realize. She stopped halfway through the room, looked at a photo, then another, and got it. The first images were harmless. an empty wine glass, a withered bouquet, half-drawn blinds, a white dress hanging on a door.

But as you continued, the photos started to talk. A table with three wine glasses, but only two visible hands, a shadow on the wall, a man’s silhouette in a window, an empty chair in a messy room. People began whispering. Juan arrived at 8:20 alone, wearing a gray jacket, looking like he’d rather d!e than be there. Carla arrived at 8:30.

We didn’t make eye contact. Her hair was up, her body tense, gliding among pictures like a statue. Then everyone reached the final five images. The first was a screenshot of a message. Love starts out like a game. Date 2021. Sender. Juan. The second was a chat with Carla. Carla. Do you think she’s ready to say yes? Him. Give me time.

The third was a blurry photo of Juan leaving Carla’s building at night in a white shirt. captioned September. The fourth was a transcribed audio of Carla laughing if she only knew this started because of me. And the fifth was a photo of me alone in an empty church dressed in white with the text. There’s no greater work of art than the truth told on time, silence descended, thick as syrup.

Juan walked up to me pale as a ghost, eyes hollow. What is this? He whispered. An exhibition, I said. See the walls? What are you trying to do? Nothing. I’ve already done it. Carla joined him. Are you insane? I looked at her. No, but you’re naked. Not because I stripped you, but because for years you’ve shown yourself without realizing it.

She bit her lip, trembling. Juan spun around frantic. Who else saw this? Who knows? Everyone who matters, I said. This is defamation, he hissed. No, it’s documentation. And the interesting thing about public art is that you can’t deny it. It speaks for itself. Carla raised her voice. You’re just bitter. I’m memory. Carla, you’re oblivion.

That’s our difference. Juan faced the last image. The empty church. Me sitting there in white, waiting for something that never happened. Did you ever love me? He asked. Yes, but loving you was like hugging a noose. I thought you were saving me when all you did was tighten it. He bowed his head, muttered something I didn’t catch, and I didn’t care. I surveyed the room.

Everyone stood frozen. A few were crying, others just gripping their wine glasses like they weighed a ton. Nico lingered at the back, gave one single clap, and left. Lucia approached and hugged me silently. It was the best word of the night. I turned off the main gallery light, leaving only a spotlight on that last photo, the empty church, me sitting, waiting.

But this time, I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I closed the door. The final dance was over. And I wasn’t about to dance with ghosts anymore.