I FOUND AN OLD PHOTO IN HIS CLOSET AND IT WASN’T US
The faint smell of dust hit me as I reached for the forgotten box high on the shelf. My fingers brushed against warped cardboard, pulling it down into the dim light filtering through the small window. Inside, beneath old sweaters, was a small stack of photographs.
They were mostly mundane until I saw *that* one, tucked face down at the very bottom. My breath caught, a hot knot forming in my stomach as I slowly turned it over. It wasn’t an old girlfriend, not even a stranger; it was Sarah. My best friend Sarah, laughing, hair wet, standing in *our* shower.
My hands started trembling, the edges of the photo feeling sharp against my skin. *He* walked in just then, saw my face, and his eyes went wide. “What is that?” he stammered, but his voice was weak.
I couldn’t speak, just held it up. He took a step back, shaking his head. “It’s old, I swear,” he mumbled, sweat beading on his forehead under the harsh overhead light. “Just a stupid mistake from years ago.”
Years ago? She was here last week helping me paint the bedroom. The scribbled address on the back wasn’t hers; it was *mine*.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*”Years ago?” I echoed, my voice shaking, the small piece of photo paper feeling like a stone in my hand. “Sarah was here last week. Helping me paint the bedroom. And this,” I pointed to the back, my finger tracing the familiar numbers, “this isn’t her address. This is *our* address. *My* address.”
The colour drained from his face entirely. He stumbled back again, bumping into the wall. “Okay, okay, not years ago exactly,” he stammered, running a hand through his already messy hair. “It was… it was a while back. But it meant nothing. A stupid, drunken night. We regretted it immediately.”
A while back. Drunken night. Regretted it. Sarah. My best friend, the one who knew everything about me, who I cried with, who I shared secrets with over wine, was standing in my shower, laughing, while *he* took a photo. The world tilted on its axis. The knot in my stomach twisted into a painful vise.
“Regretted it?” I whispered, the sound thin and reedy. “Did you regret it enough to keep the picture hidden in your closet? Did Sarah regret it enough to pretend nothing happened every time she smiled at me, every time she hugged me, every time she sat on our couch?”
He flinched at Sarah’s name, his eyes darting away. “We didn’t know how to tell you,” he mumbled, looking at his feet. “It was a mistake. A terrible, awful mistake.”
“A mistake you made *together*,” I spat, the quiet giving way to a rising tide of fury and hurt. “In *my* house. With *my* best friend.” I looked from him to the photo, the image of Sarah’s carefree face a cruel mockery. The betrayal was a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
“How long ago?” I demanded, my voice louder now, raw with emotion. “How long have you both been lying to me?”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Just… that one time,” he finally confessed, the words barely audible. “Months ago. After that party.”
Months ago. After the party we hosted here, the one where Sarah stayed over because she’d had too much to drink. The party where I’d tucked her into the guest room and he’d supposedly gone straight to bed.
My hands were no longer just trembling; they were shaking violently. The photo fluttered as I held it up, my gaze fixed on him. “Get out,” I said, the command sharp and clear despite the tremor in my voice.
He looked up, startled. “What? Where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t care,” I said, the photo now seeming heavier than lead. “Just get your things and go. Now. Before I break everything in this room.” My gaze was unwavering, hard with a pain that had instantly frozen into resolve. I couldn’t unsee the picture, couldn’t unhear his confession, couldn’t undo the gut-wrenching knowledge that the two people I trusted most had done this, together, in our home, and kept the secret.
He must have seen it in my eyes – the absolute finality. With a defeated sigh, he nodded, running a hand over his face. I watched him turn and walk out of the room, leaving me alone in the dusty closet with the silence and the damning photo in my hand, the laughter frozen on Sarah’s face feeling like a cruel joke I was only just beginning to understand. The road ahead stretched out, empty and terrifying, marked by the wreckage of two broken trusts.