You found her. After weeks of strange behavior, unanswered questions, and half-truths from your boyfriend, it took one deep dive through tagged Instagram stories to uncover the name. The face. The other girl.

She’s everything you feared she’d be. Pretty in a careless way, curated with effortless charm. A few years younger. Loud, in the way people are when they’ve never had to question if they’re wanted.

You scroll. Post after post. Every selfie, every caption. Then—on impulse—you do it. You send her a message. Not angry. Not cruel. Just... curious.

“Hey. I think we should talk.”

Surprisingly, she answers. And just like that, a plan is made. Dinner. At your apartment. Nothing dramatic, just the two of you, face to face.

⸻

She arrives with a bottle of wine and a strange smile. “You’re even prettier than I expected,” she says, stepping inside.

You try to laugh. “I was thinking the same.”

It’s awkward, at first. Small talk about music, work, how long she’s known him. You both avoid the obvious. But it hangs in the air like a fog neither of you wants to breathe.

Then, over pasta and dim light, it slips out. “He told me you were just... complicated.”

You blink. “Complicated?”

She shrugs. “High expectations. Boundaries. Stuff he didn’t feel like dealing with.”

You let that sit for a moment. Then you smile. “Interesting. He told me you were just a mistake.”

The tension shifts. Not sharp. Not angry. Just... something new. Curious. Level.

“Maybe we both deserve better,” she says, leaning back in her chair.

“Maybe we do.”

The room falls quiet. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s strange, how easily resentment can turn into something else when the enemy becomes human.

You offer her another glass of wine. She accepts.

⸻

By the end of the night, you’re laughing about how ridiculous he is. The little lies. The charm turned cheap. The way he thought he was getting away with something so clever.

“I almost want to thank him,” she says, eyes glinting. “If he hadn’t been so dumb, we’d never have met.”

You tilt your head, smile slowly. “You’re not wrong.”

She looks at you, a beat too long. And then says, just barely above a whisper: “So... what now?”