chapter six: The second accident

It happened when I least expected it.

Again.

We were in his room. The same room where trust had first cracked, where I had learned the bitter taste of pretending. I was sitting on his bed, scrolling through my phone, trying to focus on notes for our upcoming test. Josh had stepped into the bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, humming softly.

His phone was beside me, face down, as usual. Buzz. Once. Twice. My heart started thumping in a rhythm I couldn’t control. I told myself to ignore it. Focus on my notes. Pretend it was nothing.

But my eyes kept drifting to it. The name that flashed made me freeze.

Lola 💗

I didn’t touch the phone. I told myself firmly: don’t open it. You don’t need this. You can survive without looking.

But curiosity doesn’t ask permission. Fear doesn’t matter when it’s combined with the need to know. My fingers moved before my courage did. I unlocked the phone.

Just one look.

The chat opened.

Pictures. Voice notes. Messages. Small emojis, hearts, laughter—all the same tone he had used on me, the tone I had once trusted completely.

My chest tightened. My hands shook.

This time, I didn’t have to imagine the possibility. It was real. It was happening right there.

The bathroom door opened. Josh stepped out. Water droplets fell from his hair onto his shoulders. He froze. His eyes widened, scanning my face. Then they landed on his phone, in my hands.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

I stood up slowly. “Seeing,” I replied.

His face changed. Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just… quietly, irreversibly different.

“I… it’s not what it looks like,” he said, reaching for the phone.

I didn’t hand it over. Instead, I looked at him, steady and trembling all at once. “Who is Lola?”

He swallowed. His eyes flicked away. “She’s nobody,” he said finally.

Nobody.

The word felt heavier this time than the first. Funny how nobodies could hurt so much.

“Josh,” I whispered, “your nobodies are hurting me.”

He looked at me, frustration rising but muted by a hint of shame. “You’re misunderstanding.”

“No,” I said. “I’m finally understanding.”

He exhaled sharply. “You keep invading my privacy.”

Privacy. The word rang like a joke. Betrayal had no password. Betrayal didn’t need permission.

I dropped his phone gently back on the bed and stepped away. My body felt light, strangely, though my chest still ached. For the first time, I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just felt tired—tired of pretending, tired of ignoring, tired of lying to myself about the person I loved.

Josh stepped closer. “I can explain—”

“I don’t need an explanation,” I said quietly. “I just need honesty. I need truth. For once, can you give me that?”

He looked at me like he hadn’t expected the words. His lips moved, but no sound came.

I walked toward the window and rested my hand on the sill. The wind carried the faint sounds of campus life: students laughing, a car honking in the distance, the soft rustle of leaves. For the first time, the world outside felt calmer than the chaos inside this room.

“I trusted you,” I said softly. “I gave you my mornings, my nights, my laughter, my dreams. And here we are.”

Josh remained silent. His eyes were dark, almost pleading, but I didn’t turn to meet them.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just stood there, letting the quiet settle over us. Letting the weight of betrayal sit on both of us.

“You need to understand something,” I whispered, almost to myself. “Pretending doesn’t fix things. Silence doesn’t save love. And forgiveness without change is just… delay.”

He finally sat on the edge of the bed, towel forgotten, and buried his face in his hands. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t move closer. I just breathed. And in that breathing, I realized the most painful truth:

Love isn’t supposed to be this exhausting.

Love isn’t supposed to make you watch someone else every time they look at a screen, every time they laugh, every time they hold your hand.

Love shouldn’t teach you how to guard your own heart while still hoping for him to care.

I left the room that evening with the weight of awareness settling on my shoulders like a cloak. Not hatred. Not anger. Just… clarity.

I whispered to the empty corridor, “I see everything now. Every part I once pretended not to see.”

And I meant it.

“…and I realized his apologies were louder than his changes.”