I STOLE MY BEST FRIEND’S DESIGN NOTEBOOK AND SOLD IT TO HER RIVAL AT COMIC-CON
I’m standing in the crowded convention center, my heart racing as Rachel confronts me. “How could you, Emily?” she hisses, her eyes blazing with anger. I can smell the sweat and nacho cheese wafting from the food vendors, and the fluorescent lights overhead make my head throb. The rough texture of the convention center’s carpet scratches at my ankles as I shift my weight, trying to process the chaos. “You were my partner, my friend,” she continues, her voice cracking. The sound of the crowd, once a thrilling hum, now feels oppressive, closing in around us. I feel a cold dread spreading through my chest as I realize the weight of my betrayal. Rachel’s voice drops to a whisper, “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
As she turns to walk away, I grab her arm, and she spins back, her eyes flashing. Now I’ve just received a text from an unknown number: “Rachel’s going to expose you, and it’s not just about the notebook.”
👇 Full story continued in the comments…Rachel recoils as I grab her arm, her skin cold beneath my fingers. “Let go of me, Emily.” Her voice is flat, drained of the earlier fire, replaced by a chilling emptiness. I release her instantly, the silence hanging heavy between us, broken only by the distant roar of the convention floor. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, my hands trembling, and the glowing screen delivers the anonymous message: “Rachel’s going to expose you, and it’s not just about the notebook.”
My blood runs cold. I stare at the words, my mind a frantic mess. Who sent this? And what else could Rachel possibly expose? The notebook was bad enough, a clear, undeniable theft of her creative work, sold for a quick, pathetic profit. But “not just about the notebook”… it feels like a trapdoor opening beneath my feet.
Rachel, seeing my face drain of color, pauses. “What is it? Did your buyer bail?” she asks, a cruel edge returning to her voice.
“N-no,” I stammer, shoving the phone back into my pocket as if the words could somehow be hidden from reality. “It’s… it’s something else.”
She watches me, her expression wary. The initial shock and pain in her eyes are now masked by suspicion. “Something else? As if stealing months of my life’s work and selling it to the person who wants to destroy my career wasn’t enough ‘something’?”
“This is different,” I plead, taking a step towards her, though my legs feel weak. “Someone sent me a text. An unknown number. They said you’re going to expose me… not just about the notebook. What else could they mean, Rachel? What else is there?”
Her eyes narrow, the anger momentarily replaced by confusion. “Expose you? *I’m* the one who got stolen from, Emily! What could I possibly expose you for that isn’t related to this?” She looks around the chaotic convention hall, her gaze distant. “Unless… unless you did something *else*?”
The anonymous threat hangs between us, shifting the dynamic in a terrifying way. It feels like I’m being cornered, not just by my own guilt, but by an unseen player. Could it be Sarah, the rival I sold the notebook to? Is she playing games, trying to sow more discord? Or is it someone else who knows about something deeper, something I buried long ago?
A memory flashes – a lie I told years ago about a competition entry, claiming an idea was entirely mine when Rachel had brainstormed half of it with me. It was small at the time, just a stepping stone, but if someone knew… The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
“I… I don’t know what they mean,” I lie, though my voice trembles. “Unless… unless it’s about… about the old blog? Remember that project we scrapped? Maybe someone saw the early sketches?” It’s a desperate, flimsy excuse, trying to deflect from the real fear stirring within me.
Rachel looks at me, her gaze piercing. She can see the panic in my eyes, the way I avoid meeting hers fully. “The old blog? That was years ago, no one remembers that. And why would they care?” She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “You know what? I don’t care what else you’ve done, Emily. It doesn’t matter. What matters is *this*.” She gestures between us, then towards the direction of Sarah’s booth. “You sold me out. You broke trust that can’t be fixed. And whatever else someone thinks they know about you, it doesn’t change what you did today.”
She turns again, and this time, I don’t reach for her. The anonymous text, while terrifying, has also created a strange, twisted space. It introduced a new unknown, a shared uncertainty, but it hasn’t erased the fundamental betrayal.
“Rachel,” I call out, my voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. About the notebook… I don’t know what I was thinking. I can try to get it back, or give you the money…”
She stops but doesn’t turn around. “The money? You think money fixes this?” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts through the convention noise like a knife. “You didn’t just steal designs, Emily. You stole the feeling that I could trust the person standing next to me. You stole our partnership.”
She walks away then, disappearing into the milling crowd. The text message still burns in my mind, a promise of further exposure. I’m left standing alone in the chaotic hall, the weight of my actions crashing down on me. The future stretches ahead, a terrifying unknown. Rachel is gone, and whatever else is coming, I will likely have to face it alone, the anonymity of the threatening text a constant, chilling reminder that my betrayal had deeper, more complicated roots than I had ever imagined. The loss of the friendship, the professional ruin, and the looming threat of another secret being revealed – it’s a future I’ve built entirely myself, one stolen step at a time.