The cramping in my abdomen was so blinding, so all-consuming, that I couldn’t even pull myself out of bed. To distract myself from the physical agony, I unlocked my phone and tapped open the Instagram account I’d been following for three years. It wasn’t a viral page, just a quiet, cozy corner of the internet. A digital scrapbook documenting a long-distance relationship between a girl and her boyfriend who lived an ocean away. I scrolled down to a familiar post, rereading the story of how she had caught a terrible flu, offhandedly mentioned she missed him, and within twenty-four hours, he had flown halfway across the world just to show up at her hospital room. I was touched by it. I always was. It was the kind of fierce, unapologetic love that felt increasingly rare. I pulled down to refresh the feed. A new post popped up. [I need to see him. Even if it takes an eight-hour flight to get to his city, I have to see him.] [But during those eight hours in the air, while I was disconnected from the world, he confessed everything.] [He told me he has a fiancée of ten years. They are getting married this year. He begged me not to come looking for him.] The comment section exploded within sixty seconds. Her small, dedicated following couldn’t fathom that the epic romance they had been deeply invested in was built on an affair. Notifications rolled in like a slot machine—people begging the blogger to just call him, to clear up what surely had to be a terrible misunderstanding. In the next second, the man sitting on the edge of my bed—my fiancé—abruptly rejected an incoming call. … “Who was that?” I asked, my voice tight from the cramps. Colin glanced at his screen, hit the side button to black it out, and slid it casually into his sweatpants pocket. “Just a telemarketer.” He slid his hand back beneath the duvet, his warm palm resting against my lower abdomen, massaging with the perfect amount of pressure. On my screen, the blogger uploaded a new slide. It was a screenshot of a text thread. Her boyfriend had refused to pick up the phone. [He won’t answer. He says his fiancée is having a terrible endometriosis flare-up, and he needs to stay and take care of her.] [But I need him right now, too… I just sat on a plane for eight hours, just for the chance to look him in the eye.] The tone in the comments shifted from disbelief to profound pity. They called her a victim of manipulation, urging her to hold her head high. [Oh honey, don’t be stupid. A man like that isn’t worth your tears!] [But she flew eight hours! How can he just throw her away after all that?] [Replying to the above: Because he has a fiancée of ten years, and they’re getting married. That’s how.] Amidst the chaos of the comment section, I lay perfectly still, staring blankly at the screenshot. The profile picture of the boyfriend had been blurred out. But the chat background hadn’t been. It was a photo of a couple, holding each other close. The man in the background picture was a mirror image of the man sitting next to me. I turned my head slowly. I looked at Colin, right there on the edge of my mattress. Noticing my gaze, his brow furrowed in that gentle, concerned way I loved so much. “Is the pain getting worse?” he asked softly. I shook my head. Under his perplexed stare, I held out my hand. “Your phone,” I said. “Let me see it.” He froze. Just for a fraction of a second, but I saw it. “What?” We had been together for ten years. I had never once asked to check his phone. He had never checked mine. It was an unspoken pact of absolute trust. But right now, the air in the room felt terribly thin. I needed to see it. He looked at me. I looked at him. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, before Colin softened his tone, letting out a small, affectionate sigh. “Have you been reading those toxic relationship threads again?” he asked, his voice entirely reasonable. “You’re not feeling well. Don’t go down a rabbit hole, Nico. It’s not good for you.” “What toxic threads?” I asked, my voice eerily calm. “You know… those pop-psychology influencers who tell women to constantly audit their boyfriends’ phones.” He stood up, smoothly changing the subject. “Be good. I’m going to go make you some chamomile tea and get the heating pad.” He walked out. On my screen, the post was gaining traction, hitting the algorithm and pulling in outsiders. The blogger was still typing. [He just texted back. He said he only added me on social media back then because he was bored. That flying across the world to see me every month was just a distraction.] [He broke up with me. He said he loves his fiancée deeply, and begged me not to ruin their life together.] […But what about me? I know he loved me too. I felt it.] More and more people flooded in to comfort her, telling her to just book a hotel and get some rest. But she was spiraling, trapped in the agonizing loop of wondering why she wasn’t the one he chose. Finally, she wrote: He said his fiancée comes from a good family, that she’s established. But I have a great career too.] [Why am I the collateral damage?] My mind began to rewind violently, tape snapping and spooling backward. Three years ago. Colin and I had just hit our seven-year mark. Maybe it was the seven-year itch, but he had completely forgotten our anniversary, even after I had gently reminded him twice. I had cried out of sheer frustration; he had accused me of making a mountain out of a molehill, calling me petty. On the third day of our cold war, my appendix ruptured. I called him. He didn’t answer. I had to bite down on my own lip to keep from screaming as I ordered an Uber, rode to the ER alone, and signed my own surgical consent forms with a trembling hand. It was that exact night, lying alone in a sterile hospital bed, that I had stumbled upon this newly created Instagram account. It only had one post back then. The caption read: He flew 6,000 miles to see me.] The story was so simple. She was studying abroad, got hospitalized with a severe infection, and casually texted a guy she’d recently met online, saying, I wish you were here.] She thought it was a joke. They barely knew each other, and half the globe separated them. But at dawn the next day, he walked through her hospital room door. [He didn’t even bring a suitcase. He just grabbed his passport, his phone, and got on a plane, she had written. I hadn’t showered, I had no makeup on, but he pulled my hands away from my face and told me I was beautiful.] There were only a handful of comments on that post, but I read it over and over in the dark of my own hospital room. It made me realize that if a man loved you enough, with enough fire, he would treat your throwaway wishes as gospel. Eventually, I was discharged. Colin and I made up. The forgotten anniversary was swept under the rug. But I kept following her account. She posted rarely, maybe once every few months, but every single caption dripped with quiet, undeniable joy. It was a small community of followers, all of us collectively agreeing this was the purest love story on the internet. Whenever I saw her updates, I used to leave a joking comment: Your long-distance romance is so much better than my same-city one! Thinking back on it now, the irony tasted like ash. I didn’t know who to pity more—the girl who had been fed a fairy tale for three years, or the woman who had been living with a ghost for ten. My phone buzzed. She had tagged her location. She was at the airport. It was a photo of the arrivals terminal. [I’ve been waiting for hours. He didn’t show up.] [I told him if he doesn’t come, I’m going straight to his office. I need to look him in the eye when he says it.] The comments lost their collective minds. [Girl, NO! He has a fiancée! She doesn’t deserve this mess!] [What are you even going to achieve? You’re just humiliating yourself at this point.] [Honestly, I think she’s brave. I wouldn’t have the guts.] I traced the edge of my phone case with my thumb, then closed the app. “Tea is ready.” Colin walked back into the bedroom, holding a steaming mug. “Careful, it’s hot. Let it sit for a minute.” His eyes flicked away from mine, landing somewhere on the wall. “Hey, babe, something urgent just came up at the office. I actually need to head in.” “Take care of yourself, okay? If the cramps get unbearable, just call me.” I looked up at him. He was already shrugging into his jacket. “Colin,” I said. He paused in the doorway. “Yeah?” I wanted to say a hundred things. I wanted to scream. But the words turned into lead on my tongue and sank to the bottom of my stomach. “Nothing. Drive safe.” The moment I heard the front door click shut, the blogger posted again. [True love doesn’t care who came first. If he ever truly loved me, he will come see me.] This time, the tone in the comments took a sharp, brutal turn. [Wait, so you know he’s engaged, but you’re still trying to destroy a 10-year relationship?] [Yeah, the moment you started bringing up how your career was just as good as hers, the vibe shifted. Screams internalized misogyny.] [Honestly, if you marched up to him and slapped him, I’d cheer for you. But this pathetic whining? I’m over it.] [I felt bad for you before, but now you’re just being the other woman on purpose.] But she still had her defenders. [Who cares if it’s been ten years? The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel.] [She flew eight hours for love, and she just wants closure. Why are y’all tearing her apart?] [Wow, gotta love how everyone is demanding the victim be perfect while the man is entirely invisible. Hilarious.] Someone even asked if she was going to go on Instagram Live. I backed out of the post, but I didn’t close the app. Like a masochist, I began scrolling back. I looked at every single post, every single photo she had uploaded over the last three years. Back then, I only saw the sweetness. Now, every post was a surgical blade, carving me open. My eyes were bone dry. No tears. Maybe it just hurt too much. A pain so profound that my body didn’t know how to metabolize it into crying. I took a deep breath, steadying my shaking hands, and screen-recorded and saved every single post and photo to a secure cloud drive. Then, I dialed Colin’s number. “Nico?” he answered. “What’s wrong? Is your stomach killing you again?” “Colin,” I asked softly. “Where are you?” “I told you, I’m at the office. We’re in the conference room. That software rollout hit a massive snag. I’m probably going to be here late.” He lowered his voice to a perfect, hushed, I’m-in-a-meeting whisper. He sounded so incredibly authentic. “Can we FaceTime?” I said. “I just… I want to see your face.” Silence on the line for two beats. “Why do you want to FaceTime? I’m in a room full of people, babe. It’s not a good time.” “Just for a second,” I pressed. “I feel awful. I just want to see you.” “Nico, stop being difficult,” he said, a thread of strained patience weaving into his voice. “I’m dealing with a crisis here. Be good, alright? I’ll come home and hold you as soon as this is handled.” “Just one second, Colin.” “I said it’s not a good time!” His voice flared with sudden irritation. “Are your hormones just all over the place right now? Stop overthinking. Drink your tea and go to sleep, please.” “Then I’ll come to the office.” I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting copper. “Nicola!” His voice spiked. “What the hell is going on with you? I am working! If you come down here, I won’t even have time to look at you!” I listened to the cadence of his voice, picturing the expression on his face. Was he panicking? Or just annoyed that I was stepping out of line? “Colin,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Why are you so afraid to turn on your camera?” Another beat of silence. Then, the line went dead. He hung up. A moment later, a text came through. [Nico, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.] [I really can’t leave this room right now, but if you want to come down, you can. You can wait in my office.] [Take an Uber, don’t drive. Let me know when you’re downstairs.] I stared at the glowing text bubble. And I smiled. He thought I’d take the bait. He thought that if he rushed to his office building and sat behind his desk waiting for me, he could patch this lie right up. I didn’t move. Because I realized there was no point in going. What would I even say? Confront him? He had a hundred silver-tongued excuses locked and loaded. Show him the Instagram posts? He would tell me it was a bizarre coincidence, or that someone had photoshopped it to extort him. Ten years. I knew the architecture of his mind perfectly. Unless I handed him ironclad, undeniable proof, he would twist reality until black was white, until I was the one apologizing for being a hysterical, paranoid fiancé. I sat back against the headboard, pulling my knees to my chest, staring at the screen. It dimmed, then brightened. Dimmed, then brightened. No new texts from him. But the blogger posted again. [I saw him.] The comments instantly lost their minds. [Holy shit! You actually went? What happened?!] [Girl, talk to us! Where is he?] [Please don’t tell me you guys got back together.] The blogger replied to one of the comments: [He came out to see me. But he only stayed for twenty minutes.] [He said his fiancée is waiting for him at home and he had to go back.] [I begged him to stay just a little longer. He said he couldn’t. She’s having bad cramps and he was worried about her.] The comment section practically caught fire. [I am losing my mind. This guy is a sociopath.] [So he’s literally bouncing between the two of you? Putting out fires on both sides?] [WAKE UP GIRL. He’s never going to pick you!] Another update from the blogger. [He left in a panic because he got a phone call. I think it was his fiancée. I heard them arguing on the phone.] [I’ve mailed him packages before. I know his home address.] [I’m getting an Uber. I’m going to talk to her.] Panic erupted in the comments. [NO! DO NOT DO THAT! If you go there, you are officially the homewrecker!] [Girl, breathe! This isn’t her fault! The MAN lied to you!] [Yeah, take it up with him, why are you bringing the fiancée into this?!] [Oh my god, this is going to be a bloodbath.] My phone vibrated in my hand. The final update. [I’m outside her house. She deserves to know the truth.] [Whatever happens, at least I fought for this.] The very next second, my doorbell rang.
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