I don’t plan to confront Ellen in public.
I swear to myself I don’t.
But grief doesn’t ask for permission, and betrayal doesn’t wait for private rooms or perfect timing. It follows you through hallways and classrooms and open courtyards, sharp and insistent, until it demands to be seen.
I spot her near the student center, standing by the vending machines with her backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s laughing quietly at something on her phone, shoulders relaxed, posture soft.
Like nothing has happened.
Like she didn’t help dismantle my life piece by piece.
My chest tightens so hard it feels like I might choke on it.
I walk toward her before I can stop myself.
“Ellen.”
She looks up.
The moment our eyes meet, the color drains from her face.
“Zoey,” she says, voice thin. “I—”
“How long?” I ask.
Students pass by us, talking, laughing, unaware they’re walking straight through the edge of something sharp.
She swallows. “I already told you—”
“No,” I snap. “You told me how many months. I want to know how long you’ve been in love with him.”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
That hesitation is answer enough.
“Say it,” I demand.
She shakes her head, eyes filling. “Not here.”
“Why?” I ask bitterly. “Because people might hear you admit what you did? Because you don’t want to look like the villain?”
“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
“Neither was sleeping with my boyfriend,” I fire back.
A couple of students slow nearby, sensing tension. I don’t care.
“I never meant to hurt you,” Ellen says, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It just… happened.”
“That’s funny,” I say, laughing sharply. “Because betrayal usually requires a lot of choices.”
Her shoulders curl inward. “I tried to stop it.”
“When?” I ask. “After the first time? Or the second? Or when you were sitting across from me in the library pretending to be my friend?”
Her breath shudders. “I’ve loved him for a long time.”
The words slam into me harder than anything else has.
“How long?” I ask quietly.
She wipes at her face with trembling hands. “Since before you broke up the first time.”
The world tilts.
“So when you listened to me cry about him,” I say slowly, “when you told me to choose myself, when you watched me spiral—”
“I hated myself for it,” she sobs. “I hated myself every day.”
“But you still did it,” I say.
“Yes,” she admits.
Her honesty feels crueler than lies.
“I never planned to fall in love with him,” she continues, voice breaking. “It just… grew. He saw me. He needed me.”
“He needed someone,” I snap. “That doesn’t make it love.”
Her face crumples. “You don’t understand.”
“No,” I agree. “I don’t. Because I would never do this to someone I cared about.”
She reaches for me instinctively. I step back.
“Don’t touch me,” I say.
The finality in my voice makes her freeze.
“I loved you,” she whispers. “You were my friend.”
“And you destroyed that,” I reply.
A heavy silence settles between us, broken only by Ellen’s quiet sobbing.
People are staring now.
I don’t care.
“I trusted you,” I say. “I trusted you because you were quiet and safe and honest. And you used that to get close to me while sleeping with the person I loved.”
She shakes her head desperately. “I never wanted to replace you.”
“You did,” I say. “Every time you chose him over telling me the truth.”
She sinks onto the steps, covering her face.
“I’m in love with him,” she sobs. “I can’t pretend I’m not.”
The confession feels like a knife twisting.
“Then you can have him,” I say coldly. “But you don’t get me.”
She looks up at me, eyes red and desperate. “Zoey, please. I don’t want to lose you too.”
“You already did,” I reply.
She stands abruptly, grabbing my arm. “He still loves you.”
I jerk my arm away. “Don’t you dare.”
“He told me,” she insists. “He said you were the one he couldn’t let go of.”
“That makes this worse,” I say.
She collapses back into tears. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”
“But you did,” I repeat.
I take a step back, putting physical distance between us.
“This is over,” I say. “Don’t talk to me again. Don’t sit with me. Don’t look for me.”
Her mouth trembles. “Zoey—”
“No,” I cut in. “I’m done being understanding. I’m done being patient. I’m done sacrificing my sanity so other people can feel less guilty.”
She stares at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“You were never safe,” I add quietly. “You were just quiet.”
The words land hard.
I turn and walk away, my legs shaking but my spine straight.
Behind me, Ellen collapses fully, sobbing into her hands. Someone rushes toward her. Voices blur together.
I don’t look back.
As I cross the quad, my heart pounds violently, grief and rage tangling in my chest. Every step feels like ripping something out of me by the root.
I trusted the wrong people.
Again.
And this time, there’s no excuse left to cling to.
By the time I reach the far end of campus, my hands are trembling uncontrollably. I duck into the bathroom and lock myself into a stall, pressing my forehead against the door.
“Idiot,” I whisper to myself. “You stupid, stupid idiot.”
Tears spill over, hot and relentless.
I’m not just mourning a relationship.
I’m mourning the version of myself who believed she’d finally found something safe.
I flush the toilet, wipe my face, and straighten my shoulders.
I don’t know how to fix this.
I don’t know how to move forward.
But one thing is painfully clear now:
Whatever comes next will have to be built without them.