I had suffered from severe insomnia for four years. Every night was a quiet battle fought with prescription sedatives and white noise machines, trying to coax my nervous system into surrender. On another hollow, sleepless night, I tapped on a top-rated sleep-aid podcast. Through my earbuds came the gentle, rhythmic hum of low-frequency whispers. Just as a wave of drowsiness began to wash over me, a familiar male voice softened into the mic: "Thank you for listening to tonight’s episode. And to little Cherry, wherever you are listening from, sleep tight. Keep your blanket tucked in so you don’t catch a chill. I’ll always be right here to guide you into sleep." In a split second, every trace of exhaustion evaporated. My heart seized. With trembling fingers, I dragged the audio progress bar back and listened to the final sentence once more. It was Thomas. My boyfriend of four years, supposedly away on an academic conference. And the Cherry he spoke to with such tender reverence was my roommate and supposed best friend. The comment section beneath the episode was overflowing: [Using a sleep podcast to broadcast his love? This is so sweet I’m actually wide awake!] [I heard the host created this channel three years ago specifically because his girlfriend struggles to sleep. He hasn’t missed an upload since!] The blood in my veins turned to ice. My hands shook violently as I opened my message thread with Thomas. The last timestamp was 1:18 AM, where I had sent a quiet message telling him I couldn't sleep again. He had taken thirty minutes to reply with a single, curt sentence: "If you can’t sleep, count sheep. Don’t pace around and wake your roommate. I don’t want to have to apologize to Cherry on your behalf again." At that exact moment, Cherry’s private Instagram account posted a screenshot of the podcast episode with a caption: "Thank you to a certain someone for putting me to sleep every single night. With you here, every night is peaceful." I locked my phone and sat in the dark until dawn. Thomas gave Cherry his devotion and sweet dreams; to me, he tossed only scraps of irritation. Four years of insomnia. Tonight, I was finally wide awake. … At 6:37 AM, the morning light filtered through the blinds. The door to the adjoining bedroom clicked open, followed by the sound of running water in the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, there was a soft knock on my door. "Mallory? Are you awake yet? I’m heading over to the lab. Do you want me to grab you any breakfast?" Cherry’s voice was bright and melodic, infused with the vitality of someone who had slept deeply. I didn't answer. A second later, her voice drifted through the door again, this time speaking into her phone. "…Yeah, she’s still asleep. Probably pulled another all-nighter and crashed just now… Oh, Thomas, don't say that about her. Mallory has a medical condition, it’s only natural her schedule is a mess…" Through the thin wood, the voice from the other end came through crystal clear. "Medical condition? She just doesn’t have enough lab work to keep her busy. If she were actually exhausted, she’d sleep fine." Thomas’s tone shifted seamlessly from contempt to indulgence. "Forget about her. Cherry, that data set you mentioned? I reworked it between conference panels. Let’s go over it when I get to campus…" Two sentences. Two completely different men. When speaking of me, he couldn't rush past the subject fast enough. When it came to Cherry, his patience was endless. Only after the front door clicked shut did I roll over and look at my screen. The podcast was still open. The channel was named "Tides for Cherry", registered on October 26, 2023. Cherry’s birthday. I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. Thomas had always claimed to detest romantic gestures. When I once suggested matching phone wallpapers, he called me childish. When I changed his contact name to a sweet nickname, he coldly edited it back. "Stop messing around with trivial things. It looks unprofessional if the department head sees it." I hadn't pushed. After being shut down enough times, you simply learn to stop asking. Yet here he was, maintaining an entire podcast dedicated exclusively to Cherry. The handle was an intimate blend of their names. Even his profile picture—a little black kitten—was the exact counterpart to the white kitten on Cherry’s profile. The comments had doubled overnight: [I stayed up all night scrolling through every post. This isn’t a podcast, it’s an open love letter!] [You can tell he’s naturally private—no face reveals, sparse captions—but the devotion in his voice is unmistakable. He truly cherishes her.] Swallowing the lump in my throat, I clicked on the creator’s timeline. On day one, he wrote: "Happy birthday. May you always sleep peacefully." That night, Cherry threw a loud party in our apartment, and I lay in bed with a migraine until sunrise. During finals week, he posted a photo of a mug of warm milk on a nightstand, Cherry’s manicured nails barely visible in the corner. Caption: "Final exam tomorrow. I’m here. Rest easy." That same night, I pulled an all-nighter in the science library, and Thomas sent me a single text: "Don't be late tomorrow morning." During our symposium presentation, there was a single candid photo of Cherry speaking at the podium. The lighting was soft, the framing deliberate. What wasn't pictured was me—the project lead—standing beside her, delivering the fifteen-minute technical summary. During my presentation, Thomas didn't look up more than three times; he kept his head buried in his notes or leaned over to whisper remarks to Cherry. He never once lifted his phone to take a picture of me. There were dozens of updates, posted two or three times a week. They chronicled the exact timeline of my life over the past three years, yet not a single syllable belonged to me. My phone buzzed, a notification popping up from my pinned contact. "Are you awake? My flight just landed. If you come pick me up, we can grab breakfast together before I drop you off at the lab." Before I could type a reply, the "typing..." indicator flickered, and another message arrived: "Never mind. You probably stayed up all night again. Get some sleep. Cherry is already on her way to get me." My fingers hovered over the glass. I hadn't said a word, yet Thomas had already made the decision for me. He always did. He stripped me of the choice to say yes or no, framing his neglect as consideration. I took a slow, deep breath, cleared the chat, and opened an email draft. "Dear Dr. Albright," "I accept the offer. I am ready to join the Boston R&D division immediately." When I arrived at the research lab, Thomas and Cherry were sitting side-by-side at a workstation, sharing a blueberry pastry. I paused, tightening my grip on the coffee carrier in my hand. Thomas had always claimed he despised sweets. He wouldn't even drink tea if it had a drop of honey in it. Yet now, he naturally took the half-eaten pastry from Cherry's hand and swallowed it without the slightest hesitation. "You're here? Up early today," Thomas said, finishing the bite. A brief flicker of surprise crossed his face before settling back into his usual indifference. "Next time you’re awake, reply to your texts. Cherry went out of her way to knock on your door this morning and you ignored her. Stop making people worry. You’re about to finish your master's program, Mallory. Stop acting like a child." Cherry looped her arm through mine, playfully scolding Thomas. "Thomas, even if you’re our senior researcher, I won’t let you talk to my best friend like that! Look, Mallory even brought us coffee!" She lifted the cup from my carrier, the ice cubes clinking softly. "This is Thomas’s favorite roast from the roastery downtown. It’s so far away—the delivery courier let the ice melt this morning. Mallory, you really have the dedication of a five-star courier. Grad school is practically holding you back!" Thomas gave her a fond tap on the forehead, his lips curving into a smirk. When I offered no reaction, Thomas reached out to take the cup from my hand. I stepped back, letting his hand grasp empty air. "Still carrying a morning temper?" Thomas frowned. "You never drink straight iced Americanos—you always drown yours in syrup. If that coffee isn't for me, who is it—" "I like it black now," I said flatly. I lifted the cup to my lips, took a long sip, and crunched an ice cube between my teeth. "If you want iced coffee, order your own." Thomas froze, his brow furrowing deeper. The sharp bitterness of the roast coated my tongue. I still hated unsweetened black coffee. Because until five minutes ago, that cup had indeed been bought for Thomas. Every single morning I came to the lab, I took a thirty-minute detour to that specific shop, packing the drink in an insulated bag with extra ice packs so it wouldn't water down. My advisor used to tease me about spoiling him, and I would just smile, saying Thomas needed his specific blend to focus on his experiments. Now, someone else had memorized his routine. My gaze shifted to their shared desk. Two matching cups sat side by side. An iced Americano and a vanilla cappuccino. "Mallory," Thomas’s voice dropped, edged with annoyance. "I don’t care what mood you’re in, this is a research facility. Leave your personal drama at the door." Cherry quickly stepped in, her voice wavering with practiced fragility. "Did I say something wrong? Mallory, please don't be mad at me... I was just teasing." Thomas scoffed. "She’s just sleep-deprived and taking it out on everyone else. You don’t need to apologize, Cherry. It’s her problem if she can't take a joke." He guided Cherry back to their station, turning his back on me entirely. In the past, even a minor scowl from Thomas would have sent me rushing forward to smooth things over. He was my partner of four years, my senior colleague, my anchor. Now, there was only a hollow quiet inside me. I pulled on my lab coat and walked toward the incubator to finalize the culture samples for our upcoming national innovation competition. The shelf was bare. "Oh! I completely forgot to mention it to you," Cherry chimed in, walking over with a cheerful smile. "My culture colonies kept failing, so Thomas let me borrow your baseline samples. I ran the final data set this morning and submitted the report under my name to the ethics board. The competition committee just approved the project outline!" She tilted her head, delivering the betrayal with an innocent pout. "Mallory, it’s just a starter culture. You’re not going to be mad over something so small, right?" "Smash." The glass pipette in my hand slipped, shattering across the tile floor. Thomas rushed over immediately, quickly kicking the shards away from Cherry’s sneakers. A sharp edge had grazed my ankle, drawing a thin line of red, but his eyes never looked down at me. "Mallory, look at you. If you’re this unstable, how are you supposed to work? The department doesn't have an unlimited budget for you to break equipment—" "When you stole my cultures," I interrupted, my voice razor-sharp, "did you stop to consider how I was supposed to finish my work?" The room went dead silent. I snatched the binder from Cherry’s hands. Looking at the charts and regression curves, my stomach twisted. Those were the exact data models Thomas had been working on during our late-night video calls. He had told me it was an urgent departmental assignment. In reality, he was using my labor to build Cherry’s resume. I locked eyes with Cherry. "I spent six weeks culturing those strains from scratch. Thomas stayed up all night running the predictive models for you. And the final author listed on the submission is you." I took a step closer. "On what grounds?" Cherry stammered, shrinking back. "I... Thomas said..." Before she could finish her faux-distress, Thomas stepped firmly between us, grabbing my wrist. "Mallory, that’s enough! A competition isn't just about raw bench work; it’s about presentation, charisma, and defense. Cherry is confident. She handles the spotlight better than you do." A cold, mocking smile touched his lips. "Besides, the national defense panel convenes at eight in the morning. Mallory, do you honestly think you can even wake up in time? You blame your insomnia for everything, but you’re really just lazy." The cut on my ankle throbbed, but the physical sting was nothing compared to the clarity cutting through the haze of the last four years. My insomnia began four years ago, triggered by the intense pressure of qualifying exams and brutal lab shifts. Back then, Thomas sat beside me in doctors' offices, reading medical journals to find alternative therapies. He filled my nightstand with calming diffusers and herbal teas, staying on the phone with me every single night until he heard my breathing steady. Everything changed the moment Cherry became my roommate. At first, Thomas only reached out to her to ask that she keep the apartment quiet in the evenings. Slowly, their private messages multiplied. Our nightly phone calls dwindled from daily, to weekly, to nonexistent. All the hours he once spent soothing my sleepless nights had simply been redirected into recording bedtime stories for Cherry. I pulled myself upright. "Who presents this project isn't your call to make," I said, looking Thomas dead in the eye. "You both know the consequences of academic theft." I ripped my arm out of his grip and turned toward the department head’s office. The moment I pushed the heavy glass doors open to the main hall, a blinding wall of flashes and microphones blocked my path. "Ms. Howard! Is it true that you systematically plagiarized lab data from your peers?" "Your father, Professor Walter Howard, was recently accused of misappropriating grant funds and abandoning his first family. Did you collaborate in covering up his academic fraud?" The corridor erupted into chaos. Microphones were shoved into my face; the barrage of accusations left my ears ringing. Instinctively, I looked back toward Thomas for help. Instead, Cherry stepped in front of him, tears streaming down her face as she pointed a trembling finger at me: "Mallory, how could you lie to me for so long?! The deadbeat who abandoned my dying mother and left us with nothing... was your father! Did you become my friend just to mock me? And now you want to steal my research too?!" She dramatically produced a sheet of paper—a DNA paternity test. The surrounding student reporters and local press gasped. "Professor Howard’s secret daughter!" "Academic dynasty built on fraud!" "No, that's not true—" I tried to speak over the roar, my voice drowned out. "Enough!" Thomas’s voice sliced through the noise. He wrapped a protective arm around Cherry’s shoulders, glaring at me with raw disgust. "No wonder Cherry grew up with nothing. Your family ruined her life. Mallory, you have the same rotten, selfish blood as your father. You sicken me." Cherry buried her face in his chest, sobbing softly. "Thomas, don't... she was my best friend..." Thomas held her tight and guided her away through the crowd without looking back once. They left me stranded amidst the flashing lenses. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands, forcing air into my lungs. I looked straight into the nearest camera lens. "Every claim requires evidence. I have committed no fraud, and I will accept no false blame. And my father has spent forty years as an honorable academic—he is not the man she claims." Before the reporters could shout their next question, Dr. Albright burst through the crowd, his face pale with panic. "Mallory! Come quickly! Your father saw the online slander—he’s on the roof of the science building!" My world spun. I ran blindly up the stairwell, bursting onto the windy rooftop. My father stood on the ledge, his coat whipping in the autumn wind. When he saw me, he offered a fragile, broken smile. "Mallory... I'm so sorry. I'm sorry to you and your mother..." Tears spilled down my cheeks. "Dad, please step down! Step down and we will fight this together!" "When I divorced Cherry's mother decades ago, she never told me she was pregnant," my father called out, his voice trembling against the gale. "When her mother passed, that girl found me. She threatened to file abandonment lawsuits and ruin my tenure unless I paid her. I gave her everything she asked for—her tuition, her living expenses. But it wasn't enough. Now she wants to destroy my life's work. I have never committed academic fraud. Walter Howard will never admit to a crime he did not commit!" He leaned outward, half his body suspended over the concrete drop. "Mallory... take care of your mother for me. I’m so sorry." "Dad, NO!" I lunged forward, but the air caught nothing but the empty space where he had stood. "THUD." A scream tore from my throat. At that exact moment, my phone shrilled in my pocket. "Is this Mallory Howard? Your mother suffered an acute cardiac episode from severe shock. She’s in the emergency room. You need to come right now!" The world fractured around me. When I reached the hospital, my mother was awake, staring blankly at the sterile ceiling tiles. Her dry lips parted. "Your father... is he...?" I collapsed against the edge of her mattress, burying my face in the sheets, shaking uncontrollably. My silence was the only answer she needed. Fifteen minutes later, Thomas’s call came through. "Mallory, about your dad... you should just let it go. The media narrative is already set. Fighting it will only make you look more guilty." I gripped the phone, my entire body trembling with rage. "Let it go? Thomas, you know my father better than anyone! How can you stand by and watch them tear his legacy apart?!" I closed my eyes, remembering the first time I brought Thomas home. My father had cooked dinner himself, introduced Thomas to every distinguished colleague in his network, and named him as a co-researcher on his primary grant. Back then, Thomas looked at my father with absolute reverence, promising he would spend his life repaying the mentorship. On the other end of the line, Thomas simply sighed with mild annoyance. "Of course I know he was a decent mentor. But Cherry grew up without a father. She’s sensitive and traumatized. She just needed an outlet for her pain." Before I could speak, he added casually: "By the way, Cherry’s experiment hit a roadblock. When you have a minute, go over and help her finish the protocol. After all, you know the data best." A hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips. He stole my work, handed it to Cherry, and now demanded that I finish ghostwriting her success. "Thomas," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I am done playing your sick game." I took a breath. "We’re over. From this second on, neither of you exists to me." I hung up before he could respond. "Mom," I whispered, wiping my tears. "We’re leaving. We're moving to Boston." "Boston? But your degree..." I began packing her belongings into a travel bag. "A biotech firm in Boston offered me a senior research position last month. We’re leaving today. And we are never coming back." At the boarding gate, Thomas’s calls flooded my phone. I didn't open a single one. Instead, I took a screenshot of the "Tides for Cherry" podcast homepage, sent it to him without a word, blocked his number, and switched my phone to airplane mode. The jet engines roared to life, lifting us into the clouds. I never looked back.
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