MY BEST FRIEND LEFT HER DIARY OPEN — IT HAD MY HUSBAND’S PHONE NUMBER INSIDE
I was helping her pack for her move when the diary fell open to a page with his name circled in red ink. My hands froze, the box I was holding slipping to the floor with a loud thud. “What’s this?” I asked, my voice trembling. She didn’t look up, just kept folding clothes like it was nothing.
“You think I wouldn’t find out?” I snapped, my chest tightening. Her silence was louder than any answer. The room smelled like the candle she always burned — vanilla, sickly sweet — and it made me nauseous. “I told him it was over,” she finally said, her voice steady, like she was talking about the weather.
My vision blurred. I flipped through the pages, the handwriting blurred by tears. Dates, times, little details about him I thought only I knew. “Why?” I choked out, the word barely audible. She shrugged, tossed a shirt into the box, and said, “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
Then my phone buzzed — it was him. “Are you coming home or what?” But I’d already locked the door from the inside.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*I didn’t respond to his text. The silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the vanilla candle, was deafening. I picked up the dropped box, mechanically placing the clothes back inside, each movement a deliberate act of control. “He’s always told me I’m his best friend,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “That you’re the sister he never had.”
She stopped packing, finally meeting my gaze. Her eyes, usually bright and full of life, were guarded. “He cares about you,” she said, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “You know that, right?”
“Do I?” I countered, my voice cracking. “Or does he just care about maintaining the illusion? The perfect marriage, the supportive wife… while he sneaks around with his ‘sister’?” The words were bitter, fueled by a rage I hadn’t realized I was capable of.
The phone buzzed again. He was calling. I silenced it, the vibration a tiny tremor of guilt in my hand. My best friend reached for my hand, her fingers brushing mine. I jerked away, feeling a visceral need for distance.
“I can explain,” she began, her voice thick with unshed tears.
“Explain what?” I spat, the words laced with disbelief. “That you’ve been betraying me for who knows how long? That you’ve been lying to my face, every single day? That I’ve built my life on a foundation of lies?”
Suddenly, the vanilla scent became unbearable. I needed air. I pushed past her, stumbling toward the open window. The crisp air offered a small reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere. I looked out at the street, the familiar houses suddenly alien and menacing.
Hours blurred into an agonizing eternity. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room. The phone continued to buzz with increasingly frantic messages from my husband. Finally, I turned to my best friend. She was sitting on the floor, a crumpled tissue in her hand, looking like a lost child.
“I need to leave,” I said, my voice flat. “I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.”
I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t offer forgiveness. I simply walked out, closing the door behind me with a final, resounding click. I grabbed my keys and drove, not knowing where I was going, just knowing I couldn’t face either of them, or this life, anymore.
Later, months later, after the divorce was finalized and the dust settled, I found myself back in that same room, the vanilla candle long gone. It was my new apartment, and I was alone. The anger had subsided, replaced by a hollow ache. I opened the window, letting the cold air rush in. Maybe, in time, I would learn to breathe again. I picked up my phone and deleted the numbers from both their contacts. Then I turned off the light and sat in the dark. The future was uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, it was mine.