Grace stormed into the coffee shop, pointing a trembling finger right at my face. "Serena, didn't you say you were over him? What the hell are you doing trying to seduce my boyfriend now?" She screamed that I was playing the saint. She called me a vindictive bitch. She said I was like a ghost that just wouldn't leave them alone. But when her emotions completely boiled over, she slipped up right in front of Tristan. "That love letter was originally written to you by her anyway!" The air in the cafe instantly went dead silent. Tristan whipped his head around to look at me. The look in his eyes shattered into something unrecognizable. Because until this very second, he had absolutely no idea that the heartfelt letter that first made him fall in love was never written by Grace. It was me. It was written by the very girl he had just called "fucking disgusting" for having a crush on him. 1 I dragged my suitcase into the apartment and pushed the front door open. The living room was empty. Just as I let out a breath of relief, Grace's hushed voice drifted out from the guest bedroom. "Babe, do you really think this color looks good on me?" She must have assumed nobody was home, leaving her phone on speaker. A second later, Tristan's low, amused voice echoed through the hallway. "It's perfect." "Wear exactly that next time I see you." "And don't forget to book..." I didn't bother waiting. I dragged my heavy luggage straight across the hardwood floor, intentionally stomping my boots. The moment the noise echoed, the call was abruptly cut off. The apartment plunged into a suffocating, heavy silence. Grace peeked her head out from behind the half closed door. A lingering, bashful flush was still painted across her cheeks, caught halfway between romance and panic. "Sere, you're back from your dance tour?" I paused my steps. My gaze drifted sideways and landed right on the dining table. There was a framed polaroid sitting there. In the photo, Grace was leaning against Tristan, smiling sweetly. Tristan had his face turned toward her, the corners of his lips quirked up. His usual arrogant, untouchable finance bro persona was completely gone, replaced by a rare, soft affection. Looking at them like that, they really did look like the perfect couple. I lowered my eyelashes and pulled my gaze away. Since I didn't say a word, Grace waited a beat before nervously biting her bottom lip. "Sere, I texted you so many times over the past couple of months, but you ghosted me." "You're still mad at me, aren't you?" I still didn't answer her. I just wheeled my suitcase into my own room and shoved it against the wall. After two months of being empty, a thin layer of dust had settled over my furniture. I grabbed a bottle of cleaning spray and started wiping down my desk, acting as if she didn't even exist. But she didn't take the hint. She followed me to the doorway, her voice dropping into a pathetic, whiny pitch. "We used to be so close. Are we really going to let this ruin everything?" "You promised me before. You said no matter what happens, we would always be best friends." My hand froze on the polishing cloth. She was right. In this massive city, she used to be the closest person I had. She had a soft, passive personality. Whenever trouble hit, she would shrink back, and I was always the one stepping up to shield her. I had a fiery temper, and whenever I was about to snap, she would be the one holding my arm, softly talking me down. We were total opposites. That was exactly why we clicked. She came from a struggling family and was hypersensitive about everything. Most of the time, I instinctively compromised just to protect her feelings. That was why I made that promise. I told her we would always be best friends. But the entire foundation of that promise was based on the fact that I actually considered her a friend. And her? She knew damn well that I was head over heels for Tristan. Tristan was a big name in the investment circles. He was young, came from old money, and had a razor sharp mind. He always carried this lazy, untouchable arrogance. And with a face that looked like it belonged on a billboard, he naturally drew every eye in the room wherever he went. The first time I saw him was at an industry cocktail gala. The venue was packed, but he stood right in the center of the crowd. He casually took a champagne flute from a passing waiter, listening to someone talk with a bored, detached expression. Yet, he was undeniably magnetic. That was the exact moment I experienced my first real, consuming crush. Later on, I asked around about him. Plenty of women threw themselves at him, but his standards were sky high. Off the clock, he never gave anyone the time of day. Because of that, I decided to do something completely out of character. I decided to write him a letter. It was old school. It was borderline embarrassing. But at that time, I couldn't think of a more sincere way to show him how I felt. I spent an entire week drafting that letter. Every night, I hunched over my desk, rewriting paragraphs, terrified of sounding too aggressive but scared of being too subtle. I chewed on every single word. But the timing was a total nightmare. My dance company suddenly changed the tour schedule. Rehearsals were bumped up, and I had to leave with the crew the very next morning. I would be gone for weeks. While I was stressing out about how to deliver the envelope, Grace volunteered. She promised she would hand it to him personally. I was so incredibly grateful. I even hugged her, spun her around in the living room, and promised I would treat her to the most expensive steakhouse in the city the second I got back. Then came that afternoon. The air inside the tour bus was thick with the suffocating smell of stale leather and cheap cigarettes. I already had terrible motion sickness, and my stomach was doing violent flips. Right then, a dancer I barely knew forwarded me a screenshot with a quick text attached. [Hey, did your roommate get a new man?] I clicked on the image. It was Grace's newest Instagram post. In the picture, she and Tristan were pressed close together. The caption only had a single heart emoji, but the message was crystal clear. They were going public. I stared at that screenshot for a very, very long time. A sickening wave of absurdity washed over me, hollowing out my chest until I felt entirely numb. Pure instinct made me open my own Instagram app. I went to Grace's profile and dragged the screen down to refresh. Over and over. Nothing. She had hidden the post from me. But I still refused to believe it. My hands were shaking violently as I typed out a message, directly asking if she was actually dating Tristan. The typing bubble popped up on the screen. It flashed on and off. On and off. For a painful amount of time. Five agonizing minutes later, she sent a crying emoji. Then, a single word. [Yeah.] I gripped the plastic sick bag in my hand until my knuckles turned white. The next second, my body gave out. I hunched over and threw up everything in my stomach. Later on, Grace gave me her version of the story. She claimed she was just too softhearted, too terrible at rejecting people. She said Tristan was the one who approached her that day, saying he wanted to take her out. She panicked, felt pressured, and just agreed. At the end of her speech, she practically whispered an apology. According to her narrative, Tristan had laid eyes on her first. He never even accepted my letter. She claimed she tried to force it into his hand, but he didn't even glance at it before tossing it straight into a trash can. Was that really the truth? To find out what actually happened, I practically begged the tour director for a leave of absence. I got chewed out for it, but I still managed to squeeze out half a day from my packed schedule. I marched straight to the upscale restaurant where they had met. I spent hours grinding down the manager until they finally let me view the security footage from the hallway that day. When the video played, the opening scene looked straight out of a cheap romantic comedy. At the corner of the corridor, the two of them bumped into each other. Grace twisted her ankle, stumbling forward and plunging right into Tristan's chest. Tristan instinctively caught her by the waist. He didn't let go immediately. He just looked down at her, his gaze slowly dragging across her face. Then, he noticed the envelope in her hand. He raised an eyebrow. "For me?" Grace stared up at him, looking completely starstruck. But before she could even utter a syllable, Tristan smoothly plucked the envelope from her fingers. He glanced down, scanning the words. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, and his tone turned playful. "Beautifully written. You're pretty cute, too. Let's see, your name is..." At the very bottom of that page, my name and my phone number were written in crisp, clear ink. But just as he was about to read the signature, Grace lunged forward and snatched the paper right out of his hands. She was visibly panicked. Even through the silent footage, I could tell her whole demeanor was shaking. Through reading her lips, I caught her exact words. "That one doesn't count. I was going to rewrite it." "My name is Grace." She lied to me. From the very beginning, every single word out of her mouth was a lie. That exact same night, I went to confront her face to face. She tried to play dumb at first. But when I cornered her with the details until she had nowhere left to hide, her face went ghost white. She finally choked out a humiliated confession. And I didn't bother keeping her dirty little secret. It didn't take long for the drama to spread through our mutual friend group. Unable to handle the social pressure, Grace finally called Tristan out to a cafe to confess the truth. I was there that day too. Sitting a few tables away, I watched them through the glass partition. Grace's eyes were bloodshot. She tilted her face up, tears spilling over as she asked him a question. "If that letter never existed, would you still have chosen me?" Hearing that, Tristan frowned slightly. But a second later, looking at her tear soaked, pathetic face, the hesitation melted out of his eyes. He reverted back to his usual indulgent, comforting persona. He leaned across the table, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips with a lazy smile. "Of course, babe." "You're the one I fell for. It doesn't matter who wrote that piece of paper." Standing in the shadows, I watched that exact scene unfold with crystal clarity. The foot I had just lifted to walk over and expose everything slowly pulled back. The misunderstanding had been cleared up. It was in that very moment I finally understood a harsh reality. Nobody in the real world is going to abandon a gorgeous girl crying right in front of them for a faceless stranger they had never even met. If they were still choosing to be together, it meant he never gave a damn about the truth in the first place. I paused my cleaning, my voice completely flat. "I don't want to dig up ancient history." "But we don't have to pretend we're still close." I thought setting that boundary would be the end of the conversation. But Grace just stood there. In the heavy silence, a sudden, low chuckle came through her phone speaker. It was a light laugh, but it dripped with arrogant mockery. Tristan was clearly stepping in to defend his girl. "She's pretty good at playing the victim." My fingers tightened around the rag. The next second, acting as if I hadn't heard a damn thing, I lowered my head and kept scrubbing the wood. By nightfall, our other two roommates finally got home. The moment they walked in and saw me, their faces lit up with pure excitement. "Serena! I saw the clip of your solo performance on TikTok. It was absolutely insane, the comment section is practically worshipping you!" "Seriously, you are putting our studio on the map. Gorgeous face, flawless technique." I was holding my iPad, reviewing the stage footage. Hearing them, I looked up and gave them a genuine smile. "Thanks guys." The second the words left my mouth, Grace chimed in with her syrupy voice. "My boyfriend just ordered us some treats from that luxury bakery downtown. Who wants to come down to the lobby and grab them with me?" Just like that, the energy in the room completely shifted toward her. The two roommates immediately agreed, following her out the door like excited puppies. A few minutes later, they walked back in holding glossy paper bags. But the vibe when they entered was instantly awkward. Four girls lived in this apartment, but there were only three luxury drinks in the carrier. Grace paused dramatically before pushing her own cup across the table toward me. She wore a perfectly calculated look of guilt. "Sere, you can have mine." "I am so sorry. You just got back today, and he's so used to just ordering for three. He probably just forgot we had an extra person home." I dropped my gaze to the plastic cup. It was a Mango Passionfruit Frappe. In that moment, I just felt utterly exhausted by her existence. "I'm allergic to mangoes." The tragic, innocent look on Grace's face instantly froze. I dragged my eyes away from the bright yellow drink and stared dead into her eyes. "And you know that." The living room went dead silent. I leaned back against the sofa. My voice wasn't loud, but every syllable cut like glass. "Grace, do I really have to spell it out for you?" "We are not in the same lane anymore. I don't give a damn about Tristan, and whoever you want to sleep with is your own business." "But stop trying to test me with this petty bullshit." She stared at me in shock for two seconds before full blown panic set in. "I... I honestly just forgot." Before she even finished her sentence, the tears were already spilling over. "I'm sorry, Sere, I didn't do it on purpose." "You never used to talk to me like this..." Her voice got smaller and smaller, playing the ultimate victim. "If you really can't get over what happened, I can move out." I almost laughed out loud. Somehow, she always managed to spin the narrative so I looked like the villain holding a knife to her throat. Back then, I was the jealous obstacle in her epic romance. Now, I was the toxic bully forcing her out of her own home. "Suit yourself." I snapped my iPad shut, stood up, and walked straight to my room. I shut the door behind me, locking her fragile, crying face on the other side. The hallway was incredibly quiet. The other two roommates were still standing in the living room, completely mute. They had watched Grace and me go from inseparable best friends to this toxic wasteland. They knew exactly who did what. But Tristan was generous with his wealth. He constantly treated them to expensive dinners and VIP club tables. They were taking the perks. When you owe someone favors, it's hard to take the moral high ground. Neither of them wanted to offend the rich boyfriend, so they chose silence. The second I sat on my bed, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my best friend from back home. [Babe, you're back? I just heard some wild gossip. Did you make Tristan's girl cry?] She worked in the finance crowd, so she ran into Tristan way more often than I did. She was actually the one who originally swore to me that Tristan's ideal type was exactly me. A brunette with porcelain skin who knew how to dress. She said I checked every single box. That was why I got stupidly brave and wrote the first love letter of my life. And look how that turned out. He turned right around and fell for Grace. Sensing the awkwardness of bringing it up, my friend rapidly fired off another text. [Ugh, sorry babe. How was I supposed to know his 'ideal type' was just whoever threw themselves at him. Trash.] [Honestly, as long as a girl is pretty, that guy will take her.] I stared at the glowing screen, not typing anything back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow pacing under the crack of my bedroom door. I stood up and silently cracked the door open just a fraction. The living room lights were blazing. Grace was curled up in the corner of the velvet sofa, wiping her tears with one hand while her other thumb flew across her phone screen at lightning speed. She was definitely whining to someone. Waiting for her knight in shining armor to come validate her. My phone buzzed again. [Tristan is throwing a massive fit right now. He's telling everyone he's going to move his girlfriend out of that toxic apartment.] I walked slowly back to my mattress and typed a single letter. [K.] Realizing I truly couldn't care less about that drama, my best friend quickly changed the subject. [By the way, that clip of your solo is going insanely viral on our side of the internet. It's hilarious, half the Wall Street bros are turning into your fanboys.] [You are actually incredible. Every time I tell people we're friends, I feel like royalty.] Reading that, I reached up, lightly touching my own cheek, and smiled down at the screen. [Thanks.] After a second of thought, I added one more thing. [Honestly, it's mostly because the videographer was a genius.] That wasn't fake modesty. The video that blew up wasn't taken from the official studio cameras. It was captured by a freelance photographer in the audience. The lens work was incredibly stable, the angles were flawless, and he even managed to catch the exact microsecond I paused and looked up at the stage lights. He captured the absolute peak of my emotion and technique perfectly. After the competition ended, he actually came backstage to find me and asked for my number. The backstage area had been total chaos, dancers and crew running everywhere. He stood right in front of me. He was tall, with striking pale skin, but the tips of his ears were burning red. His dark eyes were piercingly bright. He didn't use cheap pickup lines, and he wasn't slick about it. He just had this raw, nervous sincerity. "Hi, I'm Tony." "If you don't mind, I would really like to get to know you properly." I stared at him for two full seconds that night, then nodded. "Sure." Grace was actually packing her bags. From the dramatic banging of closet doors, it looked like she had genuinely made up her mind to leave. I honestly thought the whole mess would be resolved tonight. But after she grabbed her designer purse and stormed out for an hour, she came back with a completely different attitude. It looked like whatever apartment she wanted hadn't worked out. Later that night, I took the trash down to the alley. Just as I stepped out of the lobby doors, I ran straight into Grace and Tristan standing on the sidewalk. They were fighting. Grace was crying hysterically, her voice trembling, clearly having a total meltdown. Tristan was standing under the amber glow of the streetlamp. His face was dark with annoyance, but he still reached out, pulling her tightly against his chest and murmuring low comforts into her hair. Pedestrians kept walking by, constantly throwing curious glances their way. With a face like his, he naturally attracted an audience no matter what he was doing. Right at that moment, he casually lifted his eyes and looked straight in my direction. Pure reflex kicked in. I immediately averted my gaze, acting like I was completely oblivious, turned around, and marched back into the building. Back in my bathroom, I went through my normal routine. Cleanser, toner, face mask. Whatever toxic soap opera was happening outside had absolutely nothing to do with me. A little while later, Grace came back inside. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. She had clearly been sobbing for hours. "Serena." I was sitting at my vanity mirror. I didn't bother turning around. She stopped right outside my open door. She stood in silence for a few seconds before slowly forcing the words out. "You told me before that you have zero feelings for Tristan anymore, right?" "You promised you wouldn't try to wedge yourself between us again." I caught her reflection in the glass and let out a dry, breathy laugh. "I'm not that desperate." I paused, adding a cold afterthought. "And for the record, it's not called wedging myself in. I liked him before you guys ever got together. But now? I'm completely repulsed." "Besides, I already have..." The words died in my throat. Another man's face suddenly flashed through my mind. It was from the celebration party a few weeks ago. After the final showcase, our entire dance company was partying in a VIP lounge. I had downed a few too many cocktails and was feeling incredibly loose. Eventually, I slipped out of the deafening club alone and crouched on the concrete steps outside to get some fresh air. Honestly, losing the guy I had a crush on wasn't what kept me up at night. It wasn't Tristan. It was the sickening realization that I had handed my absolute loyalty to the wrong person. I treated her like a sister, and in the end, she drove a knife straight into my spine. All those little memories of us hanging out suddenly played backward in my head. Only now did I realize that even during that first industry gala, when she was sitting right next to me, I was too blind to recognize the way she was staring at Tristan. That burning, obsessive focus. That raw, undisguised lust. She looked exactly like I did. Why didn't she just tell me? Why did she have to scheme, hide, and lie to my face? Lost in the memory, I looked down and realized my palms were soaked with my own tears. Right at that moment, someone quietly sat down on the cold concrete next to me and pressed a warm cup of water into my hands. I aggressively wiped my eyes and instinctively tried to stand up. But my brain forgot I was crouching right on the edge of the stairs. My heel slipped, and I pitched violently forward. By the time my senses caught up, I had crashed face first into someone's chest. My forehead pressed against a solid, muscular shoulder. The crisp, clean scent of cedar body wash instantly flooded my senses. The night breeze drifted past, carrying the sticky heat of the late summer. He gripped my arms to steady me. His hands were incredibly strong. Even his voice was magnetic. But the words that came out of his mouth were awkwardly endearing. "Miss Serena, I'm really terrible at comforting people." "But if it's possible, please don't be this sad." I froze. A second later, I couldn't hold it back. I burst out laughing right into his chest. Tony used to send me a lot of his photography work. Pictures of him hanging off sheer ice walls, or standing near the treacherous snowlines of massive peaks. The man in those photos was a rock. Even through a phone screen, you could feel this intense, fearless drive radiating off him. In real life, he always seemed like the kind of guy who could handle absolutely anything. But the second he was alone with me, he turned into a mess. His eyes would constantly dart away, and his voice would get tight and formal. But once our crazy work schedules finally cleared up a bit, he started making aggressive moves. It wasn't just him replying to my texts anymore. I could send him the most random thought, and he would effortlessly carry the conversation for hours. Sometimes he would order artisan pastries or iced lattes and have them delivered directly to the dance studio lobby. But the universe had a sick sense of humor. The treats he sent almost always matched the exact same luxury brands Grace was dragging into our apartment. After it happened three times, the way Grace looked at me completely changed. She stared at me like a guard dog, convinced I was a thief waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I had absolutely no desire to invite that kind of drama into my life. And I was definitely too exhausted to listen to her passive aggressive comments about how I was "copying her aesthetic." So, when Tony tried to send more gifts, I respectfully turned them down. Naturally, our texting cooled off a bit too. Until today. He messaged me, asking if I wanted to go out and shoot a new portrait series. I had the afternoon off, so I agreed without a second thought. Before leaving the apartment, I dug through my closet for a sleek sundress and did some light makeup. One of my roommates leaned against the doorframe, watching me with a teasing grin. "Ooh, Sere, got a hot date?" "Yeah." Her eyes dropped to my wrist and locked onto it. "Wait, that bracelet looks super familiar. It looks like a couples design." "Is there a new man in the picture?" My fingers stopped moving. I looked down, lightly brushing the braided cord on my wrist. Tony had given this to me. He claimed he wove it himself. I hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now that she pointed it out, it did feel a little too intimate. The other roommate immediately rushed over, her gossip radar fully activated. "No way, seriously?" "Who's the god tier guy that actually managed to lock down our Serena?" "Let me see!" "Can I take a closer look?" Right in the middle of the excitement, Grace's sharp voice cut through the air. I turned around. She was staring dead at the bracelet on my wrist. The color had completely drained from her face, looking at me like I was wearing stolen jewelry. "Sere... why do you have that bracelet?" Her vocal cords sounded incredibly tight. "Tristan has the exact same one. I'd recognize it anywhere. That specific pattern is the emblem his old college photography club used to use." She glared at me, a toxic mix of panic and manufactured victimhood twisting her features, like I was actively hiding a dirty affair from her. I rubbed the pad of my thumb against the textured knots of the bracelet. "A friend gave it to me." She attacked instantly. "Who?" "A photographer. A mutual friend from the financial district introduced us." "Are you absolutely sure it wasn't Tristan?" "...No." "Then how can you prove it?" That aggressive, interrogating tone instantly vaporized the last shred of my patience. I lifted my eyes, my expression turning utterly glacial. "Don't you think you're overstepping your boundaries?" I took a breath, letting my voice drop into a lethal calm. "I told you a long time ago. I am completely over Tristan, and I don't covet other women's boyfriends." "I am not like you. I don't steal things that belong to someone else." Grace's entire body went rigid. A second later, she bit her lip, and her eyes flushed a brilliant red. Crying again. I was officially done accommodating her emotional manipulation. I grabbed my purse and walked straight out the front door. Following the location Tony sent, I arrived at a sleek, high-end business cafe. Before I even pushed the heavy glass doors open, I spotted two men through the window. Tony was sitting in a leather booth. Tristan was leaning casually against the espresso bar, scowling down at his phone. Judging by his posture, he had just finished listening to a frantic voice note. He muttered something under his breath, looking violently irritated. I knew how to read lips a little bit. So I saw exactly what he was saying. He was talking about me. The phrase "my girlfriend's psycho roommate" was repeated multiple times. It was obvious Grace had called him crying to complain. The absolute disgust on his face wasn't even hidden. Finally, a cruel smirk twisted his lips as he tossed out a final sentence. "Being liked by someone like her is fucking disgusting."
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