*Lucy's house almost felt too perfect, like a magazine spread brought to life. The warm glow of candlelight and the comforting aroma of roasted garlic should have put me at ease, but instead, it felt performative. A little too curated, just like her life. When I stepped inside, I couldn't shake the sensation that I didn't belong there anymore.
Lucy had always been boy-crazy. All through school, she was the girl who threw herself headfirst into relationships, often at the expense of her friendships. She loved love, and there was something endearing about her relentless optimism when it came to romance. But it also meant she disappeared into her relationships, leaving the rest of us on the sidelines. When she met *Aki, it was no different. None of us really got to know him — we never had the chance. Lucy had a way of wrapping herself up in her partners, creating a bubble that only had room for two.
When things got serious and wedding plans came into the picture, it was impossible not to get swept up in her joy, because I adored her. Lucy was the kind of friend who could light up a room with her laugh. She had this childlike belief in love that was as frustrating as it was inspiring. I admired her optimism, even when it meant she couldn't see the cracks forming beneath her perfect surface.
She greeted me that evening with her usual effervescence, all bright eyes and warm hugs. For a moment, it was easy to forget the growing distance between us. But as the evening unfolded, the polished veneer of her life started to feel suffocating. Aki's presence didn't help. He was charming, of course — handsome in that effortless way that made people gravitate toward him. But there was always something unsettling about him, something I couldn't quite name.
The dinner passed in a blur of small talk and laughter, but I couldn't shake the unease crawling up my spine. Lucy was basking in the glow of her "perfect" marriage, while I felt like an outsider peering through a window. Aki's gaze lingered too long, his laughter a touch too familiar. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it gnawed at me. If 'ick' were a person, it was Aki.
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When Lucy left the room for a moment, the air shifted. Aki leaned in, his voice dropping into a tone that made my skin crawl. "You know," he said, "if I'd met you first, things might have been different."
My breath caught. "Excuse me?" I managed, my voice tight.
He chuckled, as if we were sharing some private joke. "Relax. I'm just saying, you're a beautiful woman. Lucy's lucky to have you around."
Before I could respond, his hand grazed my knee, and every muscle in my body tensed. The audacity of it, the sheer gall, left me frozen for a moment. Then I pushed his hand away, my voice low and sharp. "Don't."
He leaned back, unfazed, the smirk never leaving his face. "You're overreacting," he said casually, as if this was all just a misunderstanding. But I knew better. The line had been crossed, and there was no going back.
Lucy returned moments later, blissfully unaware, while I made things awkward by abruptly making my goodbyes and heading for the door. I could not get out of there fast enough.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The memory of Aki's smirk played on a loop in my mind. I felt sick — not just because of what he'd done, but because of what it would mean for Lucy. She deserved to know. She deserved the truth, even if it shattered her carefully constructed world.
When I met her for a walk a few days later, my heart felt like it was lodged in my throat. I'd rehearsed the conversation a dozen times, but nothing could prepare me for the way her face shifted as I spoke. The disbelief, the indignation, the sharp edge of betrayal that wasn't directed at Aki, but at me.
"You're jealous," she said, her words cutting through me like glass. "You've been single for so long. Maybe you're imagining things."
The accusation left me reeling. Jealous? Of what? Her husband, who couldn't even respect the boundaries of friendship? The sting of her words lingered long after she'd stormed away, leaving me alone to dwell on the unravelling threads of our friendship.
In the days that followed, she refused all contact. I replayed the conversation endlessly, dissecting every word, every nuance. I'd told her the truth, not to hurt her, but to protect her. And yet, I was the villain in her story now.
It hurt — God, it hurt — to lose her like this. But I couldn't ignore the deeper ache, the one that came from knowing I'd done the right thing and still ended up alone. I'd rather be isolated in my truth than complicit in her illusion. If Lucy couldn't see that, maybe I'd already lost her long before Aki crossed that line.
It's been nearly a year now of silence. Part of me wants to reach out, to fix it, to pretend none of this ever happened. But the other part, the part that's still reeling from Aki's sleaze and Lucy's dismissal, knows better. Some things can't be undone. And some friendships, no matter how cherished, aren't worth the cost of your own self-respect.
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