The Burner Account: Seven Years of Lust, Zero Years of Lov

The night of high school graduation, Wyatt Reed finally talked me into bed. After that first taste, he became obsessed, entangling himself in my life for seven long years. Our friends all teased him for being a total simp: "Just marry her already, Wyatt. The guy would literally die for you." Until one day, by pure accident, I stumbled upon his burner social media account. Hidden among thousands of posts was a record of a twisted, sickening devotion. A girl in a white sundress—delicate, ethereal, and radiant. She was his "One That Got Away." His untouchable muse. That was the moment I realized that in our seven years together, He had given me his body, but his heart had always belonged to someone else. 01 The day I found Wyatt’s burner account was just a regular Tuesday night. Wyatt had just returned from a business trip. The moment he stepped through the door, he didn't even drop his bags before pinning me to the bed. His needs were always high, and after a week apart, he was feral—impatient and rough. By the time it was over, I was too exhausted to even keep my eyes open. Ding. A sharp, short notification chimed. I watched Wyatt pick up his phone, his brow furrowing instantly. As he reached for his coat to head back out, I grabbed his wrist. "It’s so late. Where are you going?" Wyatt turned back, his voice dripping with that familiar, gentle sweetness. "Just a quick emergency at the office, babe. Go back to sleep. Don’t wait up." Maybe it was woman’s intuition. Half an hour after the front door clicked shut, I was wide awake. I forced myself out of bed and called the night security desk at his firm. "Is the team working late? I wanted to order some late-night pizza for everyone." "No need, ma'am. Mr. Reed let everyone off early today. The building is empty." "Everyone? There’s no one left in the office?" "No one, Ms. Hayes. Did you need me to leave a message for someone?" "No. Thank you." I hung up and sat on the edge of the bed in a daze. Our apartment was close to his office. A ten-minute drive, tops. It had been thirty minutes. Wyatt wasn't at work. Where the hell was he? 02 The next morning, Wyatt came home. He seemed to be in an incredible mood, whistling as he unlocked the door. He brought a box of my favorite artisan donuts from a boutique shop across town. It was a local legend—high-end, always a long line, no delivery. "If my girl wants them, I’d climb the highest mountain to get them for her. I’d even bake them myself if I had to." I let out a small laugh. I rubbed my temples, telling myself I was being paranoid. If I suggested Wyatt didn't love me, our friends would be the first to call me crazy. "Nora, stop it. Wyatt is literally obsessed with you. He can’t breathe without you." "You guys have been together seven years. Every time you fight, he’s the one crawling back on his knees, begging for a chance to make it right." "Stop being dramatic. Just say yes to the proposal and get married already." Our friends weren't wrong. In this relationship, Wyatt was always the pursuer. But they were wrong about one thing: Wyatt had never actually proposed. Wyatt used to say: "Babe, I don't want to give you anything less than perfect. I’ll ask when the business is stable." I was young then, too. I didn't want to be tied down by a marriage license. We were in sync—and so we spent seven years in this blurred, entangled mess. During breakfast, Wyatt stared at his phone, a faint, unconscious smile playing on his lips. "What are you looking at? You look happy." The smile vanished instantly. "Nothing. Just a cat video." "Let me see." Wyatt pocketed the phone and suddenly scooped me up into his arms. "Nothing worth seeing," he rasped into my ear. "You’re much prettier. Are you full? Because it’s my turn to eat." Right before he pressed me back into the mattress, My eyes caught a glimpse of his screen. A bright red icon. It was a niche social app mostly used by women for aesthetic blogging. Why would that be on his phone? 03 Once a seed of doubt is planted, it grows like a weed. I waited until Wyatt went to take a shower and bypassed his passcode—it was my birthday. I only had time to find the username: "FadedStar." The next morning, I sat in my home office. I filtered by location and profile picture, scrolling through thousands of "Star" accounts. An hour later, I found him. When I clicked on the profile, it felt like opening Pandora’s box. Thousands of posts. A diary of a sick, twisted obsession that made my blood run cold. [June 9, 2017. I slept with someone else today. I don’t regret it. You were the one who betrayed me first.] That was the year Wyatt stumbled into my dorm room smelling of whiskey. He talked me out of my clothes and stayed with me all night. [September 1, 2018. I missed the cut for the Ivy League. You think I chose this school for you? You’re wrong.] That was orientation day. Wyatt had knelt on the grass with a bouquet, telling me he wanted to be responsible for what happened that summer. He wasn't there for me. He was there because he failed his top choice. [August 7, 2021. You actually got married? I will never forgive you. I hope you rot in hell.] That night, Wyatt drank himself into a stupor. He was violent. He used toys I hated. I cried for hours. The next day, I had a fever and ended up in the ER. [December 25, 2023. You’re divorced. Will you finally look at me now?] That day, Wyatt—a man who hated the holidays—put on a Santa hat and posted a happy photo on our public Instagram. I couldn't look anymore. My hands were shaking as I scrolled to the very end. The latest post was from a few nights ago—the night Wyatt never came home. [The thing you can't have in your youth will haunt you for a lifetime.] The photo was of a girl in a white sundress. Beautiful. Delicate. I finally recognized her. Clara Vance. Wyatt’s childhood neighbor. I sat frozen for a long time. A cold chill washed over me, and I began to shiver uncontrollably as the truth hit me. In these seven years of entanglement, his love had never belonged to me for a single second. The childhood crush. The years of pining. Their love was a tragic, cinematic masterpiece. So... what was I? 04 I took screenshots. I recorded the screen. I saved everything. That evening, Wyatt came home with a bag of new lingerie and "toys." He always had new tricks, and I was always the one struggling to keep up. "I can't. I'm on my period." Wyatt paused, then pressed his weight against me anyway. "Then use your hands? Or your legs? I’ll be gentle, babe." "No. I’m not in the mood." After I rejected him a few more times, his face darkened. He didn't blow up, but he was clearly annoyed. He got me a heating pad and made me a cup of tea. "Rest then, babe. I have to head to the office to handle something." A friend once told me: "Don't be ungrateful, Nora. A man only wants you that much if he loves you. He’s almost thirty and still acts like a horny teenager around you." "Mine stays on the couch like a dead dog. The passion is long gone." I used to believe that too. Wyatt never hid his obsession with my body. But I forgot that for men, love and lust can be two entirely different roads. I asked myself: If I were Wyatt, would I be this reckless and rough with the person I truly loved? As he wrote on his burner account: [You are the bright, untouchable moon. I dare not even touch you. To just have your light shine on me is enough of an honor.] And me? Our first time was in a cheap motel with scratchy sheets and zero regard for my pain. The difference between love and lust was a chasm I had finally seen. 05 I followed him. I watched him enter a small, boutique bakery downtown. Clara Vance stepped out, wearing a white dress. She looked surprised, her hands reaching out to grab Wyatt’s arm. But Wyatt was acting strangely cold. He pushed her away. "The shop is yours now. Don't contact me again." Clara didn't listen. she clung to him. "I don't believe you. You can't stay away from me." They went back and forth until Clara started to cry. Wyatt finally snapped, pinning her against the brick wall. "Don't make me regret this." Under the dim glow of the streetlamp, they kissed. I stood in the shadows, my phone out, snapping photos. In my memory, Wyatt hated kissing. I stared at their silhouettes. So, it wasn't that he hated kissing. He just hated kissing me. He wasn't avoiding a proposal; he was waiting for someone else’s divorce. Just as Wyatt was about to pull her dress down, he stopped. "Go inside. I’ll see you tomorrow." Clara leaned in, persistent. "What? Going home to that girl to blow off some steam?" "I won't touch her tonight." "I don't believe you. Am I prettier, or is she?" Wyatt went silent for a moment. "You, obviously. She can’t even be compared to you." Clara smiled, satisfied. "Do you have any cupcakes left?" Wyatt asked. "Yeah. Why?" "I’ll take one." At that exact moment, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Wyatt: [Hey babe, does your stomach still hurt?] [I’m picking up a treat for you. What flavor do you want?] 06 Wyatt was almost funny. Coming back from a tryst, bringing me a cake baked by the woman he just cheated with. I replied: [I don't want a cupcake. I want those green matcha donuts from the Old Street bakery.] I could almost see his face falling. Old Street was a forty-minute drive in the opposite direction. But it was a "green" kind of day. It felt appropriate. Wyatt: [Sure, babe. On my way. I’ll Uber some food to the apartment for you to snack on first. Love you.] I locked my phone with a blank expression. I wondered how much longer he could keep up the act. 07 When Wyatt returned, he had the donuts. He also brought his best friend, Carter Brooks. Carter was wasted and crashed in our guest room. In the middle of the night, when I got up for water, I heard them talking. Wyatt’s voice was cold. "Next time you get this trashed, you’re on your own." Carter was a notorious player. He always had a girl on his arm. "You don't get it, man. Women are like clothes. You can’t walk around naked." "The girls you pick up are walking petri dishes," Wyatt snapped. "Find one girl and settle down. It’s cleaner." Carter chuckled, still sounding drunk. "Like Nora? "She is a catch, I’ll give you that. Obedient, hot body... you’re a lucky bastard. "But Clara is back now. When are you dumping Nora?" Wyatt was quiet. "We'll see. Clara hasn't said yes yet." "Well, when you’re done with her, pass Nora to me. I’ve been eyeing her for a long time." Wyatt suddenly got angry and shoved Carter. Carter didn't care. "What are you acting all protective for? You're the one who told me how wild she is in bed. Why are you getting possessive now?" I stood outside the door, my body turning to ice. I never imagined that the Wyatt who was so "tender" to me Would talk about our private life so disgustingly to his friends. Wyatt’s voice came through the door again, flat and cold. "Go for it if you want. "She’s an orphan. Desperate for affection. She’s an easy mark. "A bouquet of flowers is enough to get her into bed. Good luck." 08 I went to that bakery alone. It was cozy and chic—exactly Clara’s style. When she saw me, she froze for a second, but then put on a professional smile. I took one bite of the cake and put the fork down. "How long have you been back?" Clara smiled sweetly. "Not long. Just got in." I knew who she was. During our second year together, I found his "shrine." Wyatt had a box filled with flight logs to San Francisco. He went once a month. He told me his family forced him to check on her. So, when I was sick, Wyatt was in San Fran. On my birthday, Wyatt was in San Fran. We fought about her so many times. But every time we broke up, he would fight so hard to get me back. Until senior year of college, when Clara got married abroad. Then, he finally settled down. And now, she was divorced. And Wyatt was right back where he started. He saw me and frowned, trying to explain. "Nora, I grew up poor. Her dad paid for my tuition. Clara is back and struggling. I bought her this shop to pay back the debt." No wonder the devotion was so deep. It was "gratitude." I just nodded. I couldn't compete with a debt of life. 09 "Have you found a place to stay? The winters here are brutal." "Staying alone is so inconvenient. You should just move in with us." I acted concerned, asking Clara if she was tired or needed help. Clara’s expression became increasingly uneasy, her eyes darting to Wyatt. Wyatt finally snapped and interrupted me. "That’s enough. She’s fine here." As I left, I bought a cake and politely said goodbye. Wyatt’s face was thunderous, his rage barely contained. The moment we got into the car, he pinned me against the seat. "What the hell were you doing in there? "You can’t even buy a cake without making it a thing? "Did Carter tell you about this place?" "Why? Am I not allowed to be here? Or are you hiding something?" Wyatt punched the headrest, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes, forcing his voice into a low growl. "Nora, can you just talk like a normal person for once?" I was so over it. "Who told me doesn't matter." I threw the printed photos onto the dashboard. "Let’s settle the bill, Wyatt. "Is this what you meant by 'working late'? Do you need to make out with her to file a report?" Wyatt didn't move. A sharp edge of a photo caught his forehead, leaving a thin trail of blood. I looked him up and down with pure disgust. I threw his own words back at him. "You really are an easy mark, aren't you? "She snaps her fingers, and you come running like a dog. "Wyatt, you are so pathetic."