Chapter 1
When I was eighteen, I learned that the boy I liked most had created a private Facebook group just for me.
His feed was full of unsettling posts about me. Comments on my body, my looks, even secret photos, all wrapped in a twisted sort of affection.
All of it visible only to that specific group.
It wrecked me. I spiraled into a depression that lasted for a long time.
At twenty-two, I went to a party where I first met Cyrus Hill.
A friend brought up that incident, and ever since, every single post from Cyrus on Facebook seemed tailored
just for me.
I smiled and said, “Cyrus, if you ever stop liking me, at least tell Facebook to quit showing me your updates. Let’s try to end things with some dignity, not with radio silence.”
That update from Cyrus went on for five years.
His social media was full of my everyday moments: playing with the cat, laughing at nothing, sleeping in his
arms.
I really believed this man was The One.
Six months later, a drunk friend passed out at my place. I tried to return her phone to her, but accidentally opened her Facebook.
Her feed had none of the posts I’d seen on his page, the ones about me.
But I had just seen those posts myself.
Cyrus told me, “Evelyn, come on, we’re adults now. We’re almost thirty. Facebook is full of business partners and work contacts. It wouldn’t look good.’
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“You’re not a teenage girl anymore. Do I really need to write you long love notes? Vivian said the same thing, you’re being overly sensitive. I just wanted to test you a little. I didn’t think you’d actually take it so
personally.”
I didn’t need him to write me some cheesy essay.
What I needed was for him to write his name on the divorce petition.
“Evelyn, calm down. Get a grip on yourself!”
The sadness hit so suddenly it felt like my lungs forgot how to work. My fingers clutched the railing next to
me like I was drowning.
My phone lay next to me, still showing the call as connected.
But the person on the other end had never made a sound.
It was like all the screaming, the breakdown, the panic was all mine alone.
Only after my breath finally came back in shaky bursts did he bother to say a word.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Evelyn. It’s not that big of a deal.”
Tears rolled down my face. Was I really being dramatic?
No, I wasn’t.
I never once asked him to post about me on Facebook.
I even told him that we were already like an old married couple, that we didn’t need to do all that performative stuff anymore.
But he was lying to me.
That same sick feeling came back, the one I had as a teenager when someone toyed with me like I was a joke.
And now everyone else knew the truth except for me. He had even brought outsiders into it.
“Just come back already. You’re still Mrs. Hill, for god’s sake. It’s embarrassing for people to see you like this. ‘Respiratory poisoning’? Seriously?”
That was the last thing he ever said to me.
He didn’t even think to come see me. As if “couldn’t breathe” were just some melodrama. As if it couldn’t
kill me.
I lay in a hospital bed, waiting under observation.
Then I remembered what he had said about Vivian. Vivian Valtor, his childhood neighbor, his long-time
“friend.”
I didn’t have her on Facebook, but I vaguely recalled seeing her Instagram once.
With my photographic memory, I pieced it together and found her account.
Sure enough, there he was.
That vague, flirty not-quite-romantic vibe practically oozed from the screen.
Sometimes the first crack only shows because everything underneath has already gone bad.
I kept scrolling until one post stopped me cold:
[Managing someone else’s Facebook is so hard! But hey, my writing game just got stronger.]
Attached was a screenshot from my restricted group.
So even the posts I thought came directly from Cyrus… weren’t even his.
He’d told her the whole situation like it was some dumb joke, and she’d been the one writing them.
The ripping feeling in my chest came back. I couldn’t breathe again.
The doctor had to strap the oxygen mask back on.
My fingers turned pale and blue. I kept whispering his name, Cyrus, again and again, clenching it between my teeth like poison.
I used to call his name out of love.
Now it tasted like hate.
He could’ve ended things with dignity. But he chose this.
He still thought I was that naive little girl.
But I wasn’t that naive wife-in-waiting anymore.
Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.
