I PICKED UP HER PHONE FROM HIS BEDROOM FLOOR AFTER SHE LEFT THIS MORNING
My hand was shaking so badly the glass screen nearly slipped from my grasp as I unlocked it. The bright screen light felt like a physical blow in the dim room. It had slid under the bed, silent, forgotten until now. My fingers traced the crack near the corner.
It felt warm, holding the heat from her hand just an hour ago when she smiled goodbye. I scrolled through notifications, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. Most were just social media noise. Then I saw it, a string of texts from him.
Not just texts, but long paragraphs filled with pet names and plans. My breath hitched painfully in my chest. “How could you do this to me?” I whispered, a choked gasp. Every word on the screen felt like a hot coal.
They talked about things only we shared, jokes now twisted and ugly. It wasn’t just a mistake; this had been going on for months. Page after page, betrayal bloomed like a toxic flower. The smell of stale coffee suddenly made me want to vomit.
I kept scrolling, needing to know the entire depth of it. But there was no end, just more sickening intimacy. More plans, more future stolen.
The last message was from *his* number and it said “Are you sure he didn’t see the phone?”
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The phone clattered onto the floor again, my hand numb. *He* knew. He knew she had left it, knew I might find it, and he was checking to see if I had. The casual cruelty of it, the shared secret that involved my complete humiliation, was a physical blow. My vision swam. Not just betrayal from her, but a cold, calculated deception from the man I called my friend. He had been looking me in the eye, shaking my hand, while planning this behind my back.
Rage, cold and pure, replaced the sick dread. I wasn’t shaking anymore. I stood up, the dim room spinning slightly. The phone lay accusingly on the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I didn’t need it. The evidence was burned into my mind.
I walked out of the bedroom, down the short hallway, and into the living room where I knew he’d be. He was sitting on the sofa, nursing a coffee, the morning light filtering through the blinds. He looked up, a casual smile on his face that died instantly when he saw me.
“Hey, man, everything okay? You look…”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, my voice low and rough. “Don’t ‘Hey, man’ me. Don’t ask if everything’s okay.”
He tensed, his eyes flicking nervously towards the bedroom door. “What’s going on?”
“I found it,” I said, stepping closer. “Her phone. In your bedroom. Under the bed.”
His face drained of colour. The smile was completely gone, replaced by a panicked, hunted look. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“Months,” I continued, the words hard pebbles in my mouth. “You knew. All this time. Both of you.” I saw him swallow hard, his gaze darting around the room as if looking for an escape.
“Look, man, I can explain…”
“There is *nothing* to explain,” I spat, the rage finally breaking through the surface. “You’re not my friend. You’re a parasite. And she… she isn’t the woman I thought she was.”
I didn’t yell. I didn’t hit him, though every fiber of my being screamed to. I just stood there, letting the weight of my disgust hang in the air between us.
“Get out,” I said, the finality absolute. “Get out of my life. Both of you.”
He flinched, then slowly stood up, not meeting my eyes. He didn’t argue. He knew there was nothing he could say. He walked past me, towards the door, his usual swagger gone, replaced by a defeated shuffle.
I stood rooted to the spot, listening to the click of the latch as he let himself out. The silence in the apartment was deafening, broken only by the frantic pounding of my own heart. It was over. The friendship, the relationship, the comfortable lie I had been living. All gone. The sun was higher in the sky now, brighter, harsher. I walked back towards the bedroom, not to pick up the phone, but to close the door on the mess I had just uncovered. It was a brutal, devastating truth, but at least, finally, I knew.