The next morning my phone vibrates against the nightstand, dragging me from sleep. An unfamiliar number glows on the screen.
[567-555-0132] Alex!
I blink at the message, brain still sluggish. A new number from one of the guys? I type cautiously.
Me: Um, hi? Who is this?
[567-555-0132] I can’t believe you forgot me already [567-555-0132] It’s me, Kelly
The name hits like cold water. Kelly Fuller. My pulse stutters. The only Kelly I have ever known is the one who once occupied every corner of my life—until she occupied my roommate’s bed instead. How does she have this number? Why now?
Me: Kelly Fuller? Me: How did you get this number?
Kelly: Your mom gave it to me. Alex, I have really missed you. Kelly: I wanted to see how you’ve been doing.
The words feel rehearsed, hollow. Last I heard, she and Jason were still together. Doubt creeps in: this cannot be a casual check-in. I save the contact—habit overriding better judgment—and reply.
Me: Everything is fine here. What do you really want?
Kelly: I’m in town for spring break. I was hoping we could see each other while I’m down.
The suggestion is absurd. We did not part amicably. She betrayed me, then stayed with the man who helped her do it. The memory still carries a dull, familiar ache.
Me: I do not think that is a good idea.
Kelly: I just want to talk. To apologize for what I did to you.
Apologize. The word is too small for the wound it left. Even reading it reopens the scar—three years of trust, friendship, love, reduced to a single afternoon of betrayal. I close my eyes against the surge of old pain.
Kelly: Alex please.
Me: I do not know.
Kelly: Please. I miss you. I screwed everything up and I want to make it right. Kelly: I already talked to your parents. I told them how stupid I was. I said I would do anything to fix this. Kelly: I want you back, Alex. I want my best friend back. The only guy I ever really loved.
The declaration lands like a fist. Loved. Past tense or present, it does not matter; the word is a blade. How could someone who claimed to love me choose betrayal so easily? My throat tightens. I type through the tremor in my fingers.
Me: Kelly, you slept with Jason while I was at work. You tore my heart in two. Me: I do not know if we can ever go back.
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Dots appear, vanish, appear again. The hesitation stretches.
Kelly: Please just give me a chance. Your parents already invited me to dinner this weekend. Kelly: They said you would be there.
Frustration ignites into something sharper. My parents. Of course she went through them. The ambush is complete.
Me: What the hell, Kelly!
Kelly: Please! Kelly: I will do anything to get you back in my life. Kelly: I love you, Alex.
The repetition of those three words feels like mockery. We were inseparable once—middle school confidants, high-school sweethearts, best friends who knew every secret. The loss of that friendship hurts almost as much as the infidelity. But trust, once shattered, does not reassemble so neatly.
Me: I cannot do it.
Kelly: Please, Alex.
Me: I cannot!
Kelly: Why? Tell me why you cannot give me one more chance to prove myself.
She will not relent. She never has. In every argument, every disagreement, she wore me down until I conceded. The pattern is muscle memory now. I need an exit she cannot refute.
Me: I have a girlfriend.
Silence. A long one.
Kelly: Really?
Kelly: When I asked your parents, they said you were still single.
Of course she asked. My jaw clenches.
Me: They have not met her yet. I have not told them.
Kelly: You are not just saying this to hurt me, are you?
The lie is transparent, but retreat is no longer an option.
Me: No. Her name is Sierra. We have been dating for a few months.
Another pause. I wait, breath held, hoping the fabrication will suffice.
Kelly: Oh.
Then more typing, deleting, typing.
Kelly: I am still coming to dinner this weekend. I still want to see you. I miss my best friend.
The refusal to yield sends a wave of anger through me—hot, helpless.
Me: Kelly, no. It would be awkward.
Me: Sierra will be there. I am bringing her to meet my family.
Kelly: Good. I want to meet her too. I want to meet your new girlfriend.
My grip tightens on the phone until my knuckles ache. I want to hurl it across the room.
Me: NO! Me: I do not want you there!!
Kelly: Too bad. I already promised them.
A string of curses escapes me—loud enough to startle the neighbor’s dogs into frantic barking. She keeps going.
Kelly: I told you I am going to make things right. If I cannot have you back as my boyfriend, I still want you back as my friend.
Me: Damn it, why can you not just listen? Me: I… DON’T… WANT… YOU… THERE!
Kelly: So you do not miss me at all? Even though we have been friends since middle school? You never think about me anymore?
The question pierces. I do miss her—not the lover who betrayed me, but the girl who once knew me better than anyone. That loss is a quiet, persistent grief.
Me: Kelly, yes, I miss the friendship. But I do not believe we can ever return to that.
Kelly: How do you know? Just give me the weekend. That is all I am asking.
Exhaustion settles over me like damp fog. She has always won these battles. I have always folded.
Me: Fine. Whatever. Me: God, I always hated arguing with you. Even now, I never win.
Kelly: And you never will :) Kelly: So tell me about your girlfriend Sierra.
The conversation shifts to safer, if surreal, ground. I describe Sierra—her humor, her tattoos, her irreverence—drawing from months of real messages. Then I improvise: how we “met” through tutoring, first awkward coffee dates, quiet evenings watching shows. The details flow too easily, each one tightening the knot in my stomach.
Kelly’s replies grow terse—one-word acknowledgments, clipped questions. She is hurt, perhaps jealous, but she clings to her plan.
By the end, the lie has metastasized. She expects to meet Sierra. She will almost certainly mention the “girlfriend” to my parents. I stare at the ceiling, pulse still elevated, dread pooling in my chest.
I am profoundly, irrevocably screwed.
