My best friend was getting married.
To his best friend.
In one week.
The groom didn’t want to change anything last minute.
The bride—my best friend since before we were even born—was overwhelmed and desperate to keep things together.
She begged me to just go through with it.
“Please… I’ll make it up to you.”
And I understood.
I really did.
This wasn’t their fault.
They didn’t deserve to have their day destroyed because of what he did.
But here’s the problem.
I couldn’t stand being near him.
Not even for a minute.
Let alone walking side by side like everything was fine.
Like he hadn’t shattered me.
I was angry.
More angry than I had ever been in my life.
The kind of anger that makes you want to burn everything down just to feel something different.
So I asked myself the question that kept echoing in my head:
Would I be wrong…
If I just didn’t go?
And the truth is…
I still don’t know what the right answer is.
By the time Friday came, I wasn’t the same person anymore.
I hadn’t slept properly in days.
My eyes were swollen from crying, my chest tight like something was constantly sitting on it. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those messages again.
Dates.
Details.
Proof.
He kept texting.
Calling.
Apologizing.
Paragraph after paragraph about how he was “sick,” how he “needed help,” how I was “the only person who ever understood him.”
I stopped replying.
Not because I was strong…
But because I had nothing left to say.
His mother called too.
Over and over.
Voicemails filled with tears, begging me not to throw away six years.
“People make mistakes,” she said.
Mistakes.
I almost laughed.
Because what he did wasn’t a mistake.
It was a pattern.
A secret life.
Meanwhile, my best friend was trying to hold everything together.
Seating charts.
Last-minute cancellations.
Family drama.
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