🔴 THE RING WAS ENGRAVED — “ALWAYS, YOUR LYDIA,” BUT I’M NOT LYDIA
I slammed the drawer shut, the cheap wood rattling in the sudden, stifled silence of his apartment. It smelled like stale coffee and something vaguely metallic, like pennies.
He’d told me his dad had given him the antique dresser. That it was a family heirloom. But I knew that script, ornate and looping, it was her handwriting. I remember envying it once, years ago, when we were friends. “It’s so beautiful, like you,” I’d said, and she’d laughed.
Now the ring burned in my palm, heavy and cold. He was coming up the stairs; I could hear his heavy footsteps, each one a tiny hammer blow against my skull. What was I supposed to say?
“Hey, babe, I got us pizza!” He beamed at me, utterly oblivious, the fluorescent hallway light glinting off his teeth. That’s when I saw the lipstick stain on his collar – the same shade Lydia always wore, that sickeningly sweet cherry red.
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I swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Pizza sounds amazing.” The ring, clutched tight in my hand, felt like a physical weight, a tangible lie. I had to play along.
“Rough day at work?” he asked, setting the pizza box on the coffee table. He didn’t notice the tension radiating off me.
“Yeah, you know,” I mumbled, trying to keep my voice steady. I needed a plan. I needed to understand. “Listen, honey, I need to tell you something…” I began, then trailed off. How did you ask a question that could shatter your entire world?
He seemed to pick up on my hesitation. “What’s wrong?” His brow furrowed. He looked so… normal. So genuinely concerned.
“It’s about… the ring,” I blurted, holding out my hand, revealing the tarnished silver.
He stared at it, his face paling. “Oh… uh… you found it.” He shifted uncomfortably. “My dad gave it to me years ago. It was… my grandmother’s.” The lie felt clumsy, poorly constructed.
“No,” I said softly, the lie he was telling me made the lipstick stain on his collar much worse. “It’s engraved. For Lydia. And I know her handwriting. We were friends, remember?”
His eyes flickered, a shadow crossing his face. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He ran a hand through his hair, looking defeated. He finally sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of unspoken secrets.
“Okay,” he conceded, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s… complicated.”
And that’s when the story of betrayal was unveiled. I stood there silently waiting for the inevitable explanation. As he was trying to explain it, I found myself starting to walk towards the door.
The words “I’m done” were the last two I spoke before I walked out of the apartment and I could finally breath again without the burden of lies.