I had finally drifted into sleep, the exhaustion of the morning and the small kindness of my neighbor's visit weighing on me like a heavy blanket. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the old radiator. I was half-dreaming, half-drifting between memory and reality, when a shrill, insistent ringing pierced the calm.
At first, I didn't move. I was too tired, too numb, to register anything. The phone rang again, shriller this time, vibrating against the wooden nightstand. Finally, my foggy mind processed it. I fumbled for the device, squinting at the screen in the dim light.
It was her.
The friend who had betrayed me.
I froze, my heart rate spiking. I wanted to throw the phone across the room. But the call was already connecting, her familiar, irritatingly calm voice filling the space.
"Hey," she began, casual, friendly, like nothing had happened. "I was hoping to talk to you… I wanted to invite you to my wedding."
I blinked. My stomach twisted. Wedding. Her wedding. With him. The one who had used me for seven years, the one who had cheated, the one who had made me feel invisible. He had proposed—to her. My blood boiled, my throat tightened.
"I… What?" I hissed. My voice was sharper than I expected. "You're… you're inviting me… to your wedding? After everything?"
Her tone shifted, almost sheepish. "I know it's complicated, but I thought—maybe you'd like to come…"
I didn't hear the rest. I was consumed by anger, betrayal, and disbelief. My hands shook as I gripped the phone, and I realized I was shouting.
"Invite me? Invite me?" I screamed, my voice echoing off the bare walls. "You ruined everything! You cheated! You—You knew exactly what you were doing, and now you have the audacity to ask me to celebrate with you?!"
Her voice wavered. "I—I didn't mean to—"
"I don't care! I don't care about your stupid wedding! Or him! Or anything! How dare you…!" I trailed off, realizing I could barely breathe. My chest felt tight, my vision blurred with tears of rage and exhaustion.
And then I noticed a shadow in the doorway. My neighbor. He had come back quietly, probably sensing the chaos outside the room. His presence didn't startle me—I barely had the energy—but it made me aware of how loud I was.
He stepped forward, calm and firm. "Hey," he said gently, and I froze mid-sentence. "You're stressing yourself out."
Before I could protest, he reached for the phone and took it from my hands. The screen lit up, her voice still pleading faintly. He ended the call with a single press, setting the device down.
"Let it go," he said softly, kneeling beside me. "This… this is too much right now. You don't need to hear it. You don't need this in your life."
I sank onto the edge of the bed, finally allowing myself to collapse. My chest heaved, shaking with the release of months—years—of anger and heartbreak. For a moment, I couldn't speak. I could barely process what had just happened. The betrayal, the audacity, the relentless reminder of him—it all collided in one sharp, unbearable wave.
He didn't say anything else. He just stayed there, steady, present, offering silence instead of platitudes. And slowly, my shaking subsided. I felt the tight coil in my chest loosen slightly. My hands unclenched. My breathing became more even.
I realized then that for the first time in months, I didn't have to fight the world alone. I could still be angry, still be hurt, still scream in my heart—but I didn't have to let it consume me entirely.
The phone lay beside me, silent now, a symbol of everything I had endured. And for the first time, I felt a fragile sense of relief.