It started with a cough. A wet, rattling, sinus-clearing cough that echoed through my living room like a gunshot.<\/p>\n
We were deep into our Friday night ritual.\u00a0Stuart<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0and I were curled up on the charcoal sectional I had spent six months saving for, the blue light of an action movie flickering across our faces. He had been battling a cold all week, playing the role of the tragic, bedridden hero while I fetched soup and tissues.<\/span><\/p>\n At 9:00 PM, his phone, which sat on the cushion between us, lit up.<\/p>\n I glanced down instinctively. The preview message was from\u00a0Jackson<\/span><\/strong>, his best friend. It wasn\u2019t about the game they were planning to play, or the movie we were watching. It was a single, bizarre sentence:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cIs that whale still talking?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Followed by three crying-laughing emojis.<\/p>\n I froze. My brain tried to process the geometry of the sentence. A whale? talking? Why would Jackson be discussing marine biology at prime time on a Friday?<\/p>\n Before I could ask, Stuart\u2019s chest heaved. He snatched the phone from the cushion, his face contorted in panic, and sprinted toward the bathroom, muttering about needing to blow his nose. He was so desperate to hide his bodily functions\u2014a courtesy I usually appreciated\u2014that he made a fatal tactical error.<\/p>\n He forgot to lock the screen.<\/p>\n I sat there, the movie explosions muffled in my ears, staring at the bathroom door. A cold dread, heavy as lead, settled in my stomach. It wasn\u2019t intuition; it was a primal alarm bell.<\/p>\n I stood up, walked to the bathroom door to ensure the water was running, and then circled back to the phone he\u2019d left on the counter in his haste. The screen was still glowing, the group chat open.<\/p>\n The chat name was\u00a0The Boyz<\/span>, featuring\u00a0<\/span>Jackson<\/span><\/strong>,\u00a0<\/span>Josiah<\/span><\/strong>, and\u00a0<\/span>Johnny<\/span><\/strong>. And as I scrolled up, the air left my lungs.<\/span><\/p>\n They weren\u2019t discussing marine life. They were discussing me.<\/p>\n \u201cIs that whale still talking?\u201d\u00a0was a response to a voice note Stuart had sent five minutes prior. I pressed play, holding the phone to my ear with a trembling hand. It was a recording of me. I was rambling about my day at work, excited about a promotion possibility.<\/span><\/p>\n Stuart\u2019s caption under the recording:\u00a0\u201cThis pig won\u2019t shut up. Someone please kill me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n My hand flew to my mouth. I kept scrolling. It was a massacre. A digital archive of hatred.<\/p>\n There were videos of me laughing at TikToks, captioned:\u00a0\u201cLook at the jiggle. Gross.\u201d<\/span> I wasn\u2019t sad. Sadness is a soft emotion, a collapsing inward. This was different. This was a hardening. I felt my blood turn into something molten.<\/p>\n I scrolled back to July. Jackson had asked,\u00a0\u201cBro, if she\u2019s so annoying, why haven\u2019t you dumped her yet?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Stuart\u2019s response was a paragraph that seared itself onto my retinas:\u00a0\u201cAre you kidding? She\u2019s so desperate for love it\u2019s hilarious. Free meals, the BMW, this apartment. I\u2019m living like a king while she plans our \u2018wedding\u2019 lol.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I looked around my apartment.\u00a0My<\/span>\u00a0apartment. The one I paid for. The furniture I bought. The food in the fridge I stocked. Stuart had been living here for nine months, rent-free, driving my car, eating my food, all while documenting his disgust for an audience of three other losers.<\/span><\/p>\n September. A photo of the PS5 I bought him for his birthday. The bathroom door handle jiggled.<\/p>\n Panic spiked, sharp and electric. I had seconds. I pulled out my own phone and started snapping pictures. Click. Scroll. Click. Scroll. I didn\u2019t read them anymore; I just captured them. Dates, timestamps, context. The evidence of my own humiliation.<\/p>\n When the door opened, I was back on the couch, staring blankly at the TV.<\/p>\n Stuart emerged, looking flushed but relieved. \u201cMan, Jackson wants to know if we\u2019re still down for the barbecue next weekend,\u201d he said, wiping his hands on his pants. He sat down, draped his arm around my shoulders\u2014the same shoulders he\u2019d probably mocked an hour ago\u2014and kissed my temple.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I said, my voice sounding hollow and distant, like it was coming from underwater. \u201cThat sounds fun. I can make my potato salad.\u201d<\/p>\n He squeezed me. \u201cYou\u2019re the best, babe.\u201d<\/p>\n I smiled. It was a rictus of a smile, sharp enough to cut glass. Inside my pocket, my phone held two hundred screenshots of him calling me a whale, a pig, desperate, and stupid.<\/p>\n He went back to watching the movie. I sat there, feeling the weight of his arm like a heavy chain, and realized that the man I loved didn\u2019t exist. He was a character played by a con artist. And the show was about to get cancelled.<\/p>\n The next morning, the sun rose over a city that felt fundamentally different. The colors were desaturated, the noise sharper.<\/p>\n \u201cBabe, can I borrow the car? Meeting Jackson at the gym,\u201d Stuart asked, pouring himself coffee from\u00a0my<\/span>\u00a0machine into\u00a0<\/span>my<\/span>\u00a0mug.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d I said, tossing him the keys. \u201cHave a good workout.\u201d<\/p>\n The moment the door clicked shut, I moved. I didn\u2019t cry. I didn\u2019t collapse. I went to war.<\/p>\n I swept through the apartment like a forensic team. His laptop was locked, but his iPad\u2014the one he used exclusively for sports and memes\u2014was sitting on the nightstand. I guessed the passcode on the first try: 1234. Predictable.<\/p>\n I opened iMessage. It synced.<\/p>\n If the group chat was a river of sewage, his private chat with Jackson was the ocean it flowed into.<\/p>\n I found a conversation from two days ago. He was planning to use me through Christmas. He had a literal timeline for my disposal, calibrated to maximize his gift yield.<\/p>\n I navigated to his voice memos. There were dozens. He was harvesting my existence for content. My intimacy was his comedy.<\/p>\n I felt a wave of nausea so violent I had to grip the edge of the dresser. He worked at his uncle\u00a0Richard\u2019s<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0auto parts store. He constantly pleaded poverty, claiming the inventory job paid peanuts, which was why I paid for our vacation in July. I scrolled back to texts with his uncle.<\/span><\/p>\n Richard:\u00a0\u201cBonus hitting your account on Friday. Good work this quarter.\u201d<\/span> He had money. He just preferred spending mine.<\/p>\n I Airdropped everything to myself. Screenshots, recordings, videos. Then I went into his \u2018Sent\u2019 folder and deleted the evidence of the transfer. I backed it all up to a flash drive, then to a cloud folder named \u201cTaxes 2023.\u201d<\/p>\n I put the iPad back exactly where it had been, aligned with the dust ring on the table.<\/p>\n When Stuart returned three hours later, sweaty and vibrating with endorphins, he leaned in to kiss me. I held my breath, fighting the urge to recoil.<\/p>\n \u201cPizza tonight?\u201d he asked. \u201cMy treat? Just kidding, I\u2019m broke until Friday.\u201d He flashed that boyish grin that used to make my knees weak. Now, it looked like a predator showing its teeth.<\/p>\n \u201cMy treat,\u201d I said, forcing a lightness into my voice. \u201cLet\u2019s order from that Italian place you like.\u201d<\/p>\n We spent the evening eating carbonara. I laughed at his jokes. I let him rest his head on my lap. I ran my fingers through his hair, wondering how someone could be so hollowed out inside.<\/p>\n \u201cYou okay?\u201d he asked at one point, looking up at me. \u201cYou seem quiet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust thinking about the holidays,\u201d I lied. \u201cI want this Christmas to be special.\u201d<\/p>\n He grinned. \u201cMe too, babe. Me too.\u201d<\/p>\n On Sunday, he dragged me to the mall. He needed new shoes. We went to the Nike store, and he tried on six pairs, parading around the mirrors, asking for my opinion. When he settled on an $85 pair, he walked to the register and then just\u2026 stood there. He looked at me with those expectant, puppy-dog eyes.<\/p>\n The muscular memory of our relationship took over. I pulled out my card. I paid. The cashier asked if I wanted the points.<\/p>\n \u201cAbsolutely,\u201d I said, beaming.<\/p>\n Walking out, he swung our joined hands. \u201cYou\u2019re the best girlfriend ever,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n The best girlfriend ever.\u00a0The words echoed in my head, bouncing off the screenshots in my pocket where he called me a pig.<\/span><\/p>\n Monday morning, he went to work. I called in sick. I sat at my kitchen table, the silence pressing in on me. I knew I couldn\u2019t just confront him. If I screamed, he would gaslight me. He would tell me it was \u201clocker room talk,\u201d that I was crazy, that I was violating his privacy. He would spin the narrative until I was the villain.<\/p>\n No. He had played a long game. I needed to play a longer one.<\/p>\n I looked at the calendar. Christmas was three weeks away. He wanted to ride out the holidays? Fine. I would give him a ride he would never forget.<\/p>\n But first, I needed to know just how deep the rot went. I opened the iPad again. A new message notification popped up, not from Jackson, but from someone named\u00a0Bethany<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n My finger hovered over the screen. This was the final door. Did I really want to open it?<\/p>\n The chat with\u00a0Bethany<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0went back to mid-October.<\/span><\/p>\n She was the \u201cgym girl\u201d he\u2019d mentioned to Jackson. The one he was \u201ceyeing.\u201d Turns out, he was doing a lot more than eyeing.<\/p>\n Bethany:\u00a0\u201cGym was boring without you today. When can we actually hang out outside of there?\u201d<\/span> He was calling her babe. He was calling me a \u201clogistical situation.\u201d<\/p>\n I took the screenshots. My hands were steady now. The grief was gone, burned away by the friction of pure, unadulterated rage.<\/p>\n I needed allies. I called\u00a0Rachel<\/span><\/strong>, my coworker, and met her for lunch. When I showed her the evidence, she didn\u2019t just get mad; she looked ready to commit arson.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou need to change the locks today,\u201d she hissed, stabbing her salad.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said, surprised by my own coldness. \u201cHe wants a Christmas haul? I\u2019m going to give him a Christmas he\u2019ll need therapy to recover from.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s the plan?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTotal destruction. Public execution. But I need to maintain the fa\u00e7ade for twenty more days.\u201d<\/p>\n The next few weeks were an exercise in psychological torture. I was an Oscar-worthy actress.<\/p>\n On Tuesday, I ran into\u00a0Jackson<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0at the DMV. He waved, smiled that big, dumb smile, and chatted about the weather. Later that night, I checked Stuart\u2019s iPad.<\/span><\/p>\n Jackson had sent a photo of me sitting in the plastic DMV chair, looking tired and bored. Not smart enough.<\/p>\n I saved the screenshot.<\/p>\n On Wednesday, Stuart launched his campaign for the gifts. He showed me a website for a gaming chair.<\/p>\n \u201cMy back is killing me, babe,\u201d he groaned, rubbing his lumbar. \u201cThis chair is on sale. It\u2019s normally $400, but it\u2019s $300 right now. I know it\u2019s a lot, but\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n He let the sentence hang, the bait dangling in the water.<\/p>\n \u201cThat sounds important for your health,\u201d I said, my voice dripping with concern. \u201cI\u2019ll think about it.\u201d<\/p>\n He lit up. \u201cYou\u2019re amazing. Hey, if the chair is too much, these AirPods are also on sale\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n He had a menu. A literal tiered list of extortion.<\/p>\n Thursday, I ran into his mother,\u00a0Brenda<\/span><\/strong>, at Target. She hugged me tight. \u201cOh, honey! I\u2019m so glad I ran into you. Stuart has been talking about you non-stop.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n She linked her arm through mine. \u201cHe mentioned he was looking at rings. Asking about styles.\u201d<\/p>\n My stomach dropped. He was lying to his mother, too. Or worse, he was stringing her along to maintain the illusion of the \u201cperfect son\u201d settling down.<\/p>\n \u201cHe has good taste,\u201d I managed to say.<\/p>\n \u201cHe does,\u201d she beamed. \u201cTake care of my boy.\u201d<\/p>\n I sat in my car for twenty minutes after she left, staring at the steering wheel. Brenda was nice. She was innocent in this. But she was about to become collateral damage. I couldn\u2019t save her from her son\u2019s nature.<\/p>\n That night, I initiated the endgame.<\/p>\n \u201cStuart,\u201d I said over dinner, \u201cMy mom wants to host a big Christmas dinner this year. She wants to invite your family. Brenda, Uncle Richard, everyone. Since we\u2019re getting\u2026 serious.\u201d<\/p>\n Stuart choked on his water, then grinned. \u201cReally? That sounds awesome. Mom would love that. It would be great for the families to merge.\u201d<\/p>\n Merge.\u00a0He was thinking about the optics. The social credit. The illusion of stability that kept the free rent flowing.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cGreat,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ll set it up.\u201d<\/p>\n I called my brother,\u00a0Jasper<\/span><\/strong>. Jasper is six-foot-two, plays rugby, and has a temper that runs cold rather than hot.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI need you to come over,\u201d I told him. \u201cAnd bring your laptop.\u201d<\/p>\n When Jasper saw the folder\u2014hundreds of screenshots, audio files, the Bethany texts\u2014he didn\u2019t say a word for five minutes. He just clicked, read, and clicked.<\/p>\n Finally, he looked up. \u201cI\u2019m going to kill him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cWe\u2019re going to do something much worse. We\u2019re going to let him introduce himself to the family.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA slideshow?\u201d Jasper asked, a wicked grin spreading across his face.<\/p>\n \u201cA masterclass,\u201d I corrected.<\/p>\n We spent the next three nights editing. We organized it chronologically. We added transitions. We synced it to a sombre, melancholic piano track\u2014the kind used in \u2018In Memoriam\u2019 segments.<\/p>\n The sections were titled: It was brutal. It was comprehensive. It was ready.<\/p>\n Christmas Eve arrived. Stuart was giddy. He had spent the week dropping hints about the gaming chair. He texted Bethany that morning:\u00a0\u201cOne more day of acting, babe. Then I\u2019m free.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n One more day.<\/p>\n Christmas morning was a blur of performative joy. Stuart gave me my gift: a necklace from Target that I knew cost $32 because I saw the charge on the joint card he wasn\u2019t supposed to use.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s beautiful,\u201d I lied, clasping it around my neck. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI got you the chair,\u201d I whispered. \u201cBut it\u2019s over at my parents\u2019 house. Wrapped up big.\u201d<\/p>\n He pumped his fist. \u201cYes! You\u2019re the best!\u201d<\/p>\n We drove to my parents\u2019 house at 2:00 PM. The driveway was full. Brenda\u2019s sedan, Uncle Richard\u2019s truck, Jasper\u2019s beat-up Honda.<\/p>\n Inside, the house smelled of rosemary and pine. My mom,\u00a0Virginia<\/span><\/strong>, hugged Stuart like the prodigal son. My dad shook his hand firmly, asking about the auto shop. Stuart launched into his routine\u2014the hardworking, ambitious young man just waiting for his big break.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cUncle Richard is thinking of opening a second location,\u201d Stuart lied smoothly. \u201cI might manage it.\u201d<\/p>\n My parents ate it up. They looked at him with such hope, such approval. It made my chest ache. They wanted this for me. They wanted me to be happy.<\/p>\n Dinner was served at 4:00 PM. The table was a masterpiece of china and crystal. I sat next to Stuart, Brenda across from us.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is lovely,\u201d Brenda gushed. \u201cIt\u2019s so nice to have everyone together.\u201d<\/p>\n Stuart reached over and squeezed my hand on top of the tablecloth. \u201cI\u2019m a lucky guy,\u201d he announced to the table. \u201cTruly.\u201d<\/p>\n I squeezed back. \u201cWe\u2019re all lucky today.\u201d<\/p>\n We ate. We laughed. I watched Stuart charm my father. I watched him wink at his uncle. I watched him play the role of a lifetime.<\/p>\n When the plates were cleared and apple pie was served, I caught Jasper\u2019s eye across the room. He gave a microscopic nod.<\/p>\n \u201cHey everyone,\u201d Jasper announced, standing up. \u201cBefore we do gifts, Elena and I put together a little something. A video montage of the happy couple\u2019s year. Just to celebrate where they\u2019re going.\u201d<\/p>\n Stuart looked delighted. \u201cOh, wow. That\u2019s awesome, man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s watch it on the big screen,\u201d Jasper said, connecting his laptop to the 65-inch TV in the living room.<\/p>\n We all shuffled in. My mom settled onto the sofa. Brenda took the armchair. Stuart stood next to me, his arm draped possessively around my waist.<\/p>\n \u201cHit it,\u201d I said softy.<\/p>\n The screen faded in. The sad piano music began.<\/p>\n A photo of Stuart and me smiling on vacation appeared. Text overlay:\u00a0\u201cI love you so much, babe.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAww,\u201d Brenda cooed.<\/p>\n Then, the screen cut to black. A new title appeared in bold red letters:\u00a0THE REALITY.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n The first screenshot popped up. The room went silent. Dead silent. The only sound was the fan on the laptop.<\/p>\n Stuart\u2019s arm stiffened around me. \u201cWhat is this?\u201d he whispered, his voice pitching up. \u201cJasper, turn it off. It\u2019s a joke.\u201d<\/p>\n Jasper didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n The next slide. My dad stood up slowly.<\/p>\n The audio clips played next. Stuart\u2019s voice filled the living room, crisp and clear.\u00a0\u201cGod, her voice is annoying. I have to pretend to care about her stupid job just to get her to pay for dinner.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Brenda gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. \u201cStuart?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s fake!\u201d Stuart yelled, stepping away from me. \u201cThey edited this! It\u2019s AI! Mom, it\u2019s not real!\u201d<\/p>\n Then came the pi\u00e8ce de r\u00e9sistance. The Bethany texts. The text about the gaming chair appeared next to a photo of the wrapped box sitting in the corner of the room. The music faded out. The screen went black.<\/p>\n Stuart looked around the room. He looked at his mother, who was sobbing silently. He looked at my father, whose face was a shade of purple I\u2019d never seen before. He looked at Uncle Richard, who was shaking his head in disgust.<\/p>\n Finally, he looked at me.<\/p>\n \u201cYou went through my phone?\u201d he screamed, pointing a shaking finger. \u201cYou violated my privacy? You\u2019re crazy!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou called me a whale,\u201d I said, my voice calm, steady, lethal. \u201cYou recorded me in my own home. You planned to scam me for a chair.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was just talk!\u201d he pleaded, turning to Brenda. \u201cMom, it\u2019s just guy talk! It doesn\u2019t mean anything!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou called her a pig, Stuart,\u201d Brenda whispered, her voice breaking. \u201cAfter she cooked for you? After she welcomed us?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGet out,\u201d my father said. It wasn\u2019t a shout. It was a command from a man who was holding back physical violence by a thread.<\/p>\n \u201cBut\u2026 my stuff\u2026\u201d Stuart stammered. \u201cThe chair\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe chair is mine,\u201d I said. \u201cI bought it. I have the receipt. And you\u2019re not taking it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJasper,\u201d my dad barked.<\/p>\n Jasper stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. \u201cYou have ten seconds, Stuart. One.\u201d<\/p>\n Stuart looked at the odds. He looked at the shattered faces of his own family. He grabbed his coat.<\/p>\n \u201cTwo.\u201d<\/p>\n He stormed to the door, slamming it behind him so hard the wreath fell off.<\/p>\n Silence rushed back into the room, heavy and suffocating.<\/p>\n Brenda stood up, walking over to me on shaky legs. She grabbed my hands. \u201cI am so sorry,\u201d she sobbed. \u201cI didn\u2019t raise him like that. I don\u2019t know who that was.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not your fault, Brenda,\u201d I said gently.<\/p>\n But as I looked at the door he\u2019d just exited, I knew the war wasn\u2019t over. He had left, but his ghost\u2014and his junk\u2014was still in my apartment.<\/p>\n The next morning, the day after Christmas, Jasper met me at my apartment with a box of heavy-duty black trash bags.<\/p>\n \u201cReady?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cBorn ready,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n We didn\u2019t pack. We purged.<\/p>\n We went room by room. His clothes? Bag. His shoes? Bag. That stupid collection of baseball caps he treated like holy relics? Bag. His toothbrush, his half-empty deodorant, his dirty laundry? Bag, bag, bag.<\/p>\n We cleared the bathroom. We cleared the closet. We cleared the drawers.<\/p>\n We stripped the bed sheets he had slept on and threw those in, too.<\/p>\n When we were done, eight massive, bulging black bags sat in my living room. We hauled them down the stairs and dumped them unceremoniously on the curb next to the city trash bins.<\/p>\n I took a photo.<\/p>\n I texted it to Stuart.\u00a0\u201cYour tenure is over. Your belongings are on the curb. Trash pickup is tomorrow at 6:00 AM. I suggest you hurry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Then I blocked him.<\/p>\n I sat by the window with a glass of wine, lights off, watching.<\/p>\n An hour later, Jackson\u2019s car screeched up. Stuart jumped out, looking frantic. He and Jackson spent twenty minutes wrestling the bags into the tiny sedan. A bag ripped, spilling his underwear onto the wet pavement. I watched him scramble to pick it up in the rain.<\/p>\n It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.<\/p>\n I returned the gaming chair. I sold the Nike shoes on Marketplace. I returned the watch I had hidden away.<\/p>\n With the refund money, I booked a spa weekend for Rachel and me.<\/p>\n A week later, I got a text from a number I didn\u2019t recognize. I didn\u2019t reply. I didn\u2019t delete it immediately, though. I took a screenshot.<\/p>\n Then I sent it to the group chat I had created with Jasper and Rachel. Three crying-laughing emojis came back instantly.<\/p>\n I put my phone down, locked the screen, and walked out into the crisp winter air. The apartment was quiet. The rent was mine. The car was mine. And for the first time in nine months, the silence didn\u2019t feel empty. It felt like victory.<\/p>\n If you want more stories like this, or if you\u2019d like to share your thoughts about what you would have done in my situation, I\u2019d love to hear from you. Your perspective helps these stories reach more people, so don\u2019t be shy about commenting or sharing.<\/p>\n
There was a recording of me singing \u2018Happy Birthday\u2019 to my mother,\u00a0<\/span>Virginia<\/span><\/strong>, over FaceTime in August. Caption:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cShe\u2019s screeching again. My ears are bleeding.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
Josiah:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cBro, you\u2019re a genius. This is the best scam ever.\u201d<\/span>
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cI know, right? She even pays for my gym membership because I told her we should \u2018get healthy together\u2019 before the wedding. What wedding?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\n
Jackson:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cWhen are you gonna trade up? You said summer was the deadline.\u201d<\/span>
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cWaiting until after the holidays. She\u2019s gonna buy me a bunch of expensive s\u2014 for Christmas. I\u2019m thinking new watch, maybe that gaming chair.\u201d<\/span>
Jackson:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cSavage. I respect the hustle.\u201d<\/span>
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cGotta milk the cow before I send her to the slaughterhouse.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\u201cMe on the phone with my mom, telling her Stuart might be the one.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0Recorded secretly.<\/span>
\u201cMe humming while folding laundry.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0Recorded secretly.<\/span>
\u201cMe sleeping.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0Just the sound of my breathing.<\/span><\/p>\n
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cThanks Uncle Rich. Buying that new sound system for the truck.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\n
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cSoon, babe. I promise. Just got a situation I need to handle first.\u201d<\/span>
Bethany:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cThe \u2018roommate\u2019 situation?\u201d<\/span>
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cExactly. Just gotta ride this out through the holidays. Complicated logistics.\u201d<\/span>
Bethany:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cPhoto attached: [Selfie in workout gear] Can\u2019t wait until you\u2019re free.\u201d<\/span>
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cGod, you\u2019re gorgeous. Soon. I\u2019m counting down the days.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
Jackson:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cLook who I ran into lol. The whale in her natural habitat.\u201d<\/span>
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cDid she seem suspicious?\u201d<\/span>
Jackson:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cNah, she\u2019s clueless. We chatted. She has no idea.\u201d<\/span>
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cGood. She\u2019s not smart enough to catch on. Plus, she sees what she wants to see.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
Part I: The Face of Love<\/span>\u00a0(Stuart saying he loved me).<\/span>
Part II: The Whale Chronicles<\/span>\u00a0(The group chat).<\/span>
Part III: The Financial Audit<\/span>\u00a0(Him bragging about using me).<\/span>
Part IV: The Future Mrs. Stuart<\/span>\u00a0(The Bethany texts).<\/span><\/p>\n
\n
The group chat. Jackson\u2019s text:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cIs that whale still talking?\u201d<\/span>
Stuart\u2019s reply:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cThis pig won\u2019t shut up. Someone please kill me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cShe\u2019s so desperate for love. Free meals, the BMW. Living like a king.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
A photo of Bethany in a sports bra.<\/span>
Stuart:\u00a0<\/span>\u201cOne more day, babe. Just gotta get the Christmas gifts out of the whale, then I\u2019m dumping her. New Year, New Us.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\u201cGonna guilt her into the $300 chair. She\u2019s clueless.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
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\u201cElena, please. Can we get coffee? I need closure. I think we can work past this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n
\u201cIs that whale still talking?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0I typed.<\/span><\/p>\n