I Went to Pick Her Up from the Party — What I Saw Left Me Speechless

If you asked me a year ago what could actually break me, I would’ve said something dramatic and stupid, like a car crash or a sudden layoff or my apartment burning down.

I wouldn’t have said “a balcony at a college-town house party on a Friday night.”

But that’s where it happened. That’s where everything I thought I knew about Emily, about us, about the last two years of my life, cracked open under a string of cheap fairy lights.

And all I did was show up when I said I would.

My name’s Daniel Hayes. I’m twenty-six, a software engineer at a mid-sized tech company in Columbus, Ohio, a city that looks like it can’t decide if it wants to be a big deal or stay a sleepy Midwestern town. I live in a two-bedroom apartment with mismatched IKEA furniture and a TV that’s way too big for the living room. I meal prep on Sundays, complain about JavaScript on weekdays, and play pickup basketball on Saturdays.

It’s a comfortable life. Boring, even.

At least that’s what Emily said once, half joking, half not.

Emily was twenty-four, a nursing student at Ohio State, and the kind of person who made a room louder just by walking into it. Dark hair that she always wore in a messy bun that somehow still looked like a magazine ad, big brown eyes that could flip from sweet to sharp in a second, and a laugh that made other people laugh, even if they didn’t know what she was laughing at.

We met at a coffee shop two years earlier. She spilled an iced latte on my laptop bag, panicked, apologized like it was a federal crime, and then insisted on buying me a new bag even though there wasn’t a single drop on my actual computer.

I said yes to coffee instead. That turned into dinner, then into late-night drives, then into toothbrush-left-at-my-place, then into “we.”

We had our issues—who doesn’t—but I thought we were solid. I trusted her. I really did.

That Friday night proved how wrong I could be.

---

It started out normal enough.

I was on my couch, laptop open, Slack pinging, pretending debugging a build at 9 p.m. on a Friday was a personality and not a problem. NBA highlights played with the volume low. A half-eaten Chipotle burrito sat on the coffee table, foil peeled back like a failed gift.

Emily was getting ready at her place across town. She’d FaceTimed me an hour earlier, propping her phone against a makeup bag while she blended foundation in the bathroom mirror.

“Does this dress look like I’m trying too hard?” she asked, stepping back so I could see her full outfit.

It was a tight black dress that hugged her curves, hit mid-thigh, with thin straps over her shoulders. She paired it with white sneakers and a denim jacket tossed on the bed behind her.

“You always look like you’re trying just hard enough,” I said, smirking.

“That’s not an answer, Dan.”

“It is. You look amazing. Seriously.”

She smiled, just a little. “Good. Because everyone’s going all out tonight. It’s Megan’s birthday, and she said if I show up in sweats she’s revoking my bridesmaid status.”

Megan was her best friend from the nursing program. Blonde, loud, obsessed with themed parties and astrology and her dog, Luna. I’d met her a dozen times. She always rolled her eyes at me when I said star signs were just socially acceptable stereotypes.

“You know I’d bail if you wanted me to come,” I said. “I can still throw on a shirt, Uber over, be awkward in a corner with a beer…”

She shook her head immediately. “No, no. You said you have a rollout Monday. I don’t want you exhausted and cranky. I’ll drink watered-down vodka with my girls and you can stare at code. Balance.”

“Yeah, that’s what every guy dreams of,” I joked. “His girlfriend at a party full of drunk strangers while he romances Visual Studio Code.”

She rolled her eyes. “They’re not strangers. You’ve met half of them. And you’re picking me up, remember? Around midnight? I already told Megan I’m not staying out all night. And I promise not to dance on any tables.”

“You better not,” I said. “Because my Honda can’t handle that kind of chaos.”

She laughed, leaned close to the camera, and kissed it. “I love you. I’ll text you when I’m ready.”

“I love you too,” I said.

She hung up. I stared at my own reflection on the black screen for a second longer than I wanted to admit.

---

The party was at a house off campus, one of those beat-up rentals with peeling white paint and too many cars crammed along the curb. I’d been there once last summer for a barbecue. Back then, the grass had been mostly green and the porch railings hadn’t looked like they were about to give up on life.

Tonight, from the photos popping up on Instagram, it was Fairy Light Central. Megan had posted a boomerang of shot glasses clinking in front of a “HAPPY 25TH” banner. Someone else had posted a blurry video of people singing terribly to early 2000s pop. There were red Solo cups in every single frame.

At 10:37 p.m., my phone buzzed.

Emily: We’re hereee 🎉

I shot back: Have fun. Don’t let Megan adopt another stray frat guy.

She responded with a crying-laughing emoji and a pink heart.

I went back to my code, but concentration slipped away like it always did when my brain had something better to chew on. I’d read the same error stack three times and still couldn’t see what the hell was wrong. My mind kept drifting to Emily’s dress, to how her hand felt when she tucked it into my elbow, to the way she’d leaned into the camera like she could fall through the screen.

At 11:15 p.m., my phone buzzed again.

Emily: It’s sooo loud in here

Me: That’s what happens when people “have fun” apparently

Three dots. Then nothing.

I shrugged it off at first. Parties were chaotic. Maybe she got distracted. Maybe she was dancing. Maybe Megan was dragging her into another round of tequila for “girl’s night memories.”

I watched another game highlight. I stood up, stretched, stared at the kitchen like maybe I’d suddenly developed the ability to cook something that wasn’t scrambled eggs. I sat back down.

At 11:34 p.m., my phone buzzed again.

This time it wasn’t Emily. It was my friend Chris.

Chris and I had been friends since freshman year. He did marketing for a local brewery and somehow knew someone at every bar within a fifty-mile radius.

The text said: Yo, you at Megan’s thing?

Me: Nah. Late night deploy. Why?

Three dots. Then a photo popped up.

The picture was from across the room at the party, under dim string lights. People were moving, faces half turned, background blurred. But in the center, there was Emily, laughing, head thrown back, one hand up in the air, the black dress hugging her hips.

And pressed close behind her, his chest against her back, one arm looped loosely around her waist, was a guy I didn’t recognize.

He was taller than her, wearing a faded Ohio State hoodie and ripped jeans, a backwards cap on his dark hair. He was leaning down, his mouth close to her ear. His hand on her waist didn’t look casual. It looked familiar.

My stomach did a weird twist.

Another text from Chris: Didn’t know you were cool w that lol

A hot flush spread up the back of my neck. My rational brain tried to push through.

It’s just a dance. Parties get crowded. People bump into each other. She probably doesn’t even know the guy’s that close. Maybe Megan dragged her into a dance circle.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Me: That’s my girlfriend.

Chris replied almost instantly: Oh shit. My bad. Didn’t realize. Thought you were here tbh. She looks… pretty drunk.

Pretty drunk.

I glanced at the clock. 11:38 p.m.

I read the text again. My chest tightened.

I’d seen Emily drunk before. Tipsy Emily was cute, clingy, affectionate, the kind of girl who wrapped herself around my arm and told everyone I was the best boyfriend in the world. Very drunk Emily was… less cute. Less logical. More impulsive.

I chewed my lip. Maybe I was overreacting. I trusted her… right?

But the image of that guy’s hand on her waist wouldn’t leave.

I texted Emily.

Me: How you doing?

No response.

I watched the three dots appear, disappear, come back, vanish.

Nothing.

I stared at the screen for another thirty seconds, then muttered, “Screw it.”

I grabbed my keys.

---

The drive to the party took fifteen minutes. It felt like it took an hour.

Downtown Columbus on a Friday night is all headlights, laughter spilling out of open bar doors, the glow of traffic lights reflecting off rainy pavement. Tonight, the sky was clear and cold. The heat in my Honda Civic blasted against my hands on the wheel as I turned down the neighborhood street.

There were cars lining both sides of the road. Music thumped from half a block away, the bass making my rearview mirror vibrate. People clustered on the sidewalk, talking, smoking, stumbling. Someone laughed too loud. Someone argued over who’d called the Uber.

I found a spot three houses down and killed the engine. For a second, I sat there, both hands still on the wheel, my heart thudding harder than it should have.

I could be that guy, I thought. The controlling boyfriend who shows up to drag his girlfriend out of a party because he saw one suspicious photo.

I could just text her again. I picked up my phone.

Me: Hey, I’m almost there. Ready to head out in a bit?

Three dots.

Then: Emily: Already? We just did cake

Just did cake. It was closing in on midnight.

Me: I thought you wanted to leave around 12?

No answer.

The uncertainty in my chest hardened into something sharper.

I got out of the car.

---

The front yard was a mess of stomped-down grass, discarded cups, and cigarette butts. The front porch sagged under the weight of ten people, half of whom turned to look at me like I was a new species when I pushed open the front door.

A rush of heat, sweat, cheap perfume, and spilled beer hit me in the face. The air was thick. Music pounded from speakers somewhere deep in the house, a remix of a song I’d heard a thousand times on TikTok.

Bodies were everywhere. Living room, kitchen, even in the hallway, people stood shoulder to shoulder, talking, laughing, shouting over the music.

I scanned for Emily’s dark hair, her black dress. Nothing.

“Yo, Dan?” a voice called.

I turned. Tyler, one of Megan’s on-again, off-again flings, was leaning against the wall, a beer in hand. Tall, athletic, tattoos peeking out under his t-shirt sleeves. I’d played basketball with him a couple times.

“Hey,” I shouted back, moving closer. “You seen Emily?”

He smirked, eyes glinting. Something about it made my spine stiffen.

“Yeah, she’s around,” he said. “Check upstairs? Or maybe the balcony. It’s like a sauna in here.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

The stairs were crowded, but I squeezed past people, mumbling apologies when I bumped shoulders. The second floor was slightly quieter, but still pulsing with noise. A couple was making out against a bathroom door. Someone stumbled out of a bedroom, laughing so hard he nearly fell over.

Where the hell—

There was a sliding glass door at the end of the hallway, leading out to a small balcony wrapped with string lights. I could see silhouettes through the glass, hear the muffled sound of voices.

I took a step toward it, then another.

That’s when I heard her laugh.

I’d know that sound anywhere. It cut through crowd noise, through music, through my own heartbeat.

I moved closer.

The balcony was maybe eight feet long, just enough room for a couple of plastic chairs and a tiny metal table cluttered with empty cups and a half-dead fern. Fairy lights zigzagged around the railing, casting everything in a warm, flattering glow.

Through the glass, I saw Emily.

She was leaning back against the railing, her head tipped up, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted in a smile. One strap of her dress had slipped slightly down her shoulder.

Standing in front of her, close, was the same guy from the photo.

The backwards cap was gone. His dark hair was messy, his jaw covered in a day’s worth of scruff. His hands were braced on either side of her on the railing, caging her in, their bodies so close there was hardly air between them.

I couldn’t hear what he said, but whatever it was made her laugh again. She reached up, fingers brushing his chest, then his shoulder, tugging him a fraction closer.

He dipped his head.

She didn’t turn away.

His mouth met hers.

For a second, my brain refused to process it. It was like watching a glitch in a game, some impossible overlap of frames that couldn’t be real.

Emily’s hands slid up around his neck. She kissed him back, slow, deliberate. One of his hands moved from the railing to her waist, fingers slipping under the hem of her denim jacket, splaying over the curve of her hip.

My own hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

They broke apart for a moment. I could hear her voice now, muffled through the glass.

“…he’s not even here,” she was saying, words slurred but clear enough. “He’s probably buried in his computer like always.”

The guy chuckled. “Then he doesn’t have to know.”

“I told him I’d leave at midnight,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s such a… planner.”

The word sounded like an insult.

The guy leaned in again, murmuring something against her neck. Her head fell back, exposing her throat. His mouth followed the line of her jaw.

A roaring started in my ears. My vision tunneled.

I could have turned away.

I could’ve walked out, gotten in my car, and driven home, pretended I’d never seen it, confronted her later with some half-coherent “what the hell” over coffee in my kitchen.

Instead, I slid the balcony door open.

The music surged around us. The cold night air spilled in.

Emily jerked her head toward the sound, eyes wide.

For a second, time froze.

She stared at me. The guy stared at me. My reflection stared back from the glass, pale, stunned, stupid.

“Hey,” I said, my voice somehow flat and calm despite the chaos inside me. “Ready to go?”

---

If shock had a face, it was Emily’s in that moment.

“Dan?” she said, her voice small, like she’d been caught doing something as minor as eating the last slice of pizza, not making out with a stranger. “What are you— I thought—”

“You texted that you just did cake,” I said. “Said you’d leave at midnight.”

I glanced at my watch. 11:59 p.m.

“Well,” I added, “it’s midnight.”

The guy stepped slightly in front of her, like he was somehow protecting her from me. It would’ve been funny if it didn’t make me want to put my fist through his smug face.

“Yo, man, chill,” he said, lifting his hands a little. “We were just talking.”

“Yeah,” I said. “With your tongue.”

His jaw tightened. “She said you guys weren’t that serious.”

Emily sucked in a breath. “I did not—”

My eyes snapped to her. “Really?”

Her mouth opened and closed. “I… I didn’t say it like that.”

“How did you say it?” I asked. My voice still sounded weirdly calm, even to my own ears. Detached. “I’m curious.”

“Can we not do this here?” she hissed. “You’re making a scene.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “I’m making a scene.”

Someone behind me in the hallway had stopped to watch. I could feel eyes on us, the way the air shifted when a crowd senses drama.

“Look,” the guy said, stepping to the side, hands up. “I didn’t know, okay? She told me—”

“I don’t care what she told you,” I cut in. “This isn’t about you.”

His brows shot up. “All right, dude. Whatever.”

He slipped past me back into the house, shoulders brushing mine. For a split second, we were face-to-face. He gave me this tiny, pitying smile, like I was the one who’d messed up.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Emily stood there, back pressed to the railing, breathing fast. Her eyes were shiny, mascara slightly smudged at the corners. The fairy lights cast little halos in her irises.

“Dan, I…” She dragged a trembling hand through her hair. “It’s not… it’s not what you think.”

I stared at her. “You were kissing him.”

Her chin wobbled. “I was drunk. We were just messing around. It didn’t mean anything.”

I stepped onto the balcony fully, sliding the door mostly closed behind me. The music dulled to a thump.

“It meant enough for you to say I wasn’t serious,” I said. “It meant enough for you to tell him I wouldn’t know because I’m ‘buried in my computer.’”

Her face crumpled. “You heard that?”

“Every word.”

She swallowed hard, eyes darting away. “I… I don’t even remember exactly what I said. We were all doing shots—”

“Don’t,” I snapped, sharper than I intended. “Don’t blame this on tequila.”

She flinched.

Down below, someone yelled, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” The night went on, oblivious.

“You told me you loved me three hours ago,” I said, quieter now. “You looked me in the eye and said you loved me, and now I’m supposed to pretend this is just you ‘messing around’?”

“I do love you,” she insisted. “Dan, I swear to God, I do. I just…” She gestured helplessly around us. “It got crazy. We were dancing, and he was being really sweet, and you weren’t here, and Megan kept giving me drinks, and it just… happened.”

“It just happened,” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said, almost desperately. “It just happened. It didn’t mean anything. I don’t even know his last name.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“It was a mistake,” she said. “A stupid, drunken mistake. Can we please talk about this somewhere else? People are staring.”

She was right. Through the glass, I could see at least four faces peeking our way, their expressions ranging from guilty curiosity to outright fascination.

“I’m not yelling,” I said softly. “You’re the one worried about the audience.”

Tears spilled over. She swiped at them angrily. “Of course I’m worried. You just barged in like—like my dad catching me sneaking out in high school. You’re humiliating me.”

I stared at her, stunned.

“You’re humiliated?” I said. “Em, you were just making out with some random guy while your boyfriend is on his way to pick you up, and the thing you’re worried about is being embarrassed?”

“That’s not—” She shook her head, hair flying. “You’re twisting things.”

I laughed again, that same harsh sound. “I haven’t twisted anything. I walked in on what I walked in on.”

She stepped closer, reaching for my arm. “Can we talk in the car? Please? I’ll leave. I’ll go with you. Just… can you not do this here?”

Something in me cracked at the plea in her voice, the tears, the trembling hands. Part of me wanted to be the guy who shrugged it off, who chalked it up to too much alcohol and a moment of stupidity, who ferried his crying girlfriend home and held her while she apologized.

But another part of me, a quieter, colder part, spoke up.

“What’s left to talk about?” I asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You kissed somebody else. You told him I wasn’t that serious. You said I wouldn’t notice because I’m always working.” I held her gaze. “Is any of that untrue?”

Her lip quivered. “It’s… complicated.”

“No,” I said. “It’s actually really simple.”

We stared at each other for a moment, the tension stretched so thin I felt like I could hear it hum.

“Come downstairs,” I said finally. “We’ll talk outside at least.”

She nodded, almost frantically. “Okay. Okay.”

---

The cold slapped us when we stepped out the front door. The music dulled behind us as it closed, replaced by the murmur of late-night traffic and the distant wail of a siren.

We walked in silence to my car. Her heels clicked on the cracked sidewalk; my sneakers scuffed. The night smelled like wet leaves and exhaust.

Once inside the Honda, the silence thickened. The world outside became a blur of moving shadows and dim porch lights.

Emily sat in the passenger seat, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She shivered.

“Can you turn the heat on?” she whispered.

I turned the key. The engine coughed to life. Warm air began to sputter from the vents.

She stared straight ahead, mascara smudged, lips pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, voice breaking. “I am so, so sorry, Dan.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she rushed on. “I was having fun, and everyone was hyping me up, and he was flirting, and I just… I got caught up in it. It didn’t mean anything. I swear to you, it didn’t.”

“But you wanted it,” I said quietly.

She flinched. “I… I don’t know. Maybe. I just—”

“Yes or no, Emily,” I said. “You don’t just accidentally wrap your arms around someone and make out with them for five minutes.”

Her breath hitched. “Yes,” she whispered. “Okay? Yes. I wanted it. In that moment. Because I was drunk and I wasn’t thinking straight and—”

“But you were thinking straight enough to lie about me,” I said.

She stared at me, eyes wide. “I didn’t lie.”

“You told him I wasn’t serious,” I said. “That I wouldn’t know because I’m always working. Is that true?”

She swallowed. “I… I said you work a lot, yeah. I never said you weren’t serious.”

“That’s what he heard,” I said.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you’re believing some random dude over me?”

“No,” I said. “I’m believing my own eyes. And ears.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. I know I’ve been complaining about you working all the time, but… I was just venting. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

I stared at the steering wheel, at my hands, at the cheap plastic dashboard. “You keep saying that. That you love me.”

“I do,” she insisted, reaching for my arm again. “I love you so much. You have to know that.”

“I thought I did,” I said. “But I don’t know what that means to you anymore.”

She recoiled like I’d slapped her.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You know what we have. You know everything we’ve been through. We’ve had fights before. We’ve messed up before. We always work it out.”

“Have you kissed other guys before?” I asked.

She froze. “What? No. Of course not.”

“Are you sure?” I turned to look at her. “Because the way you said that upstairs, like it was just some throwaway thing, like it didn’t mean anything… it felt rehearsed.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she snapped, anger flaring between the tears.

“It means,” I said slowly, choosing my words, “you were very quick to file that under ‘mistake’ and ask me to move on.”

“Because that’s what it was,” she shot back. “I made a mistake. Yeah, it was a shitty one. But people mess up, Dan. You’re acting like I murdered someone.”

“I’m acting like my girlfriend cheated on me,” I said sharply. “Which you did.”

“That’s such a harsh word,” she said, wincing.

“What would you call it?” I asked.

She opened her mouth, closed it, looked away. “I don’t know. A fuck-up. A stupid, one-time screw-up.”

“Cheating,” I repeated. “You kissed someone else. That’s cheating. I shouldn’t have to debate the vocabulary with you.”

She pressed her fingertips to her temple like she had a headache. “Can we please not do this right now? I’m drunk, I’m exhausted, and you’re… you’re talking to me like a prosecutor. I already said I was sorry.”

“And I heard you,” I said. “But ‘sorry’ doesn’t hit undo.”

“So what?” she snapped suddenly, whipping her head back toward me. “What do you want me to do, Dan? Grovel? Beg? Block every guy on my Instagram? Never go out with my friends again? Do you want me to crawl on my knees in the street and scream ‘I cheated’ so your pride feels better?”

Her words hit like slaps. My jaw clenched.

“This isn’t about my pride,” I said. “It’s about trust.”

“Trust,” she repeated, laughing bitterly. “That’s rich coming from you.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She stared at me, eyes blazing now. “Do you remember last fall? When you were texting your ex all the time because she ‘needed help’ with her resume?”

I blinked. “That was not—”

“You didn’t tell me for three weeks,” she cut in. “Three weeks of you ‘Oh, that’s just work’ while your phone lit up with her name. I found out because she tagged you in some throwback picture on Instagram.”

“That is not even remotely the same thing,” I said. “I helped her with her resume and LinkedIn. We met for coffee twice, in the middle of the day, at Starbucks. I told you everything the second you asked.”

“Only because you got caught,” she shot back. “And don’t act like I didn’t see how you smiled when you’d get her texts.”

I stared at her, stunned. “You seriously think me editing her bullet points is on the same level as you making out with a guy at a party while I’m on my way to pick you up?”

“It’s about emotional cheating,” she said. “You were emotionally cheating.”

“In what universe?” I demanded. “I didn’t flirt. I didn’t hide. I didn’t downplay our relationship to her. I didn’t say, ‘Oh, Emily and I aren’t serious.’”

Her face twisted. “I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“And you’re rewriting history,” I said. “I remember how that went. You were mad for a week, and then you admitted you might’ve overreacted and we moved on. Because I didn’t cross that line.”

She sank back in the seat, covering her face with her hands. “God, you’re so righteous.”

I stared at her. “Do you hear yourself?”

She dropped her hands, eyes wet and fierce. “You act like you’re perfect, Dan. You’re not. You’re checked-out half the time. All you care about is your job, and your code, and your stupid passion projects. You miss dates, you cancel plans, you forget things I tell you. I’ve felt like I’m coming second to your laptop for months.”

Her voice broke. “I’ve told you that. Over and over. And you always say you’ll ‘try to be better,’ but nothing changes. And then tonight, I’m at this party, and this guy is just… there. Actually listening to me, actually looking at me, actually being present. And I felt… wanted.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and ugly.

I inhaled slowly. “So this was… what? Punishment?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t think, ‘Oh, I’m going to hurt Dan.’ I just… it felt good in the moment. To not feel like an afterthought.”

“So you cheated because I’m not fun enough.”

“I cheated because I’m human and I made a mistake,” she snapped. “Because I’ve been feeling neglected for months and instead of dealing with it in a healthy way, I got drunk and did something dumb. That’s the truth. It’s not pretty, but it’s the truth.”

I stared out the windshield. A car drove by slowly, headlights sweeping over us. Somewhere down the street, someone shouted, followed by a burst of laughter.

“Maybe I do work too much,” I said quietly. “Maybe I miss things. Maybe I haven’t been as present as I should be. I can own that.”

She sniffed, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand.

“But none of that forced you to do what you did tonight,” I continued. “You could’ve talked to me. Again. You could’ve broken up with me. You could’ve screamed at me, told me I was making you feel like crap. Instead, you told a stranger our relationship wasn’t serious and put your mouth on his.”

She let out a sob. “I didn’t say it wasn’t serious.”

“Stop arguing the wording,” I said, my voice hardening. “You know what you communicated.”

Silence.

Then, in a small voice, she said, “Are you… breaking up with me?”

The question hung there.

I looked at her. Really looked at her. At the girl I’d met in that coffee shop, who’d apologized a hundred times over a spilled latte. At the woman who’d held my hand in the ER when my sister crashed her car last winter. At the person who’d painted my tiny living room that soft blue because she said the beige made her feel like she was slowly dying.

And at the same time, I saw the girl on the balcony. Laughing. Arms around someone else. Saying I wasn’t really there.

My chest hurt.

“I don’t know how to come back from this,” I said finally. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to forget that image. Or those words.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ll do anything,” she whispered. “I’ll cut everyone off. I’ll stop going out. I’ll go to therapy. We can go to therapy. I’ll give you my phone, my passwords—”

“This isn’t a parole hearing,” I said, almost gently. “I don’t want a prisoner. I wanted a partner I could trust.”

“You can trust me,” she insisted. “I’ll prove it.”

“How?” I asked. “By never putting yourself in a situation where drunk you does what sober you apparently wants to hide?”

She flinched like I’d hit her.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered.

“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s honest.”

Her shoulders shook as she cried. It wasn’t pretty crying, either. It was messy, gasping, red-nose crying. The kind of crying that usually tore me up from the inside.

Tonight, I just felt… tired.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder. We both glanced at it.

A notification from Instagram.

Tyler mentioned you in their story.

“What the hell…” I muttered, picking it up. I tapped the notification.

It opened to a blurry video. Someone had filmed the balcony earlier, zoomed in on Emily and the guy kissing. Grainy, from across the room, but still clear enough to see what was happening. Text overlaid on the video read: Megan’s parties never disappoint 😂 #toxic #messy

I realized with a jolt that you could see me at the end of the clip, opening the sliding door. The video cut off right as Emily’s face registered shock.

My stomach flipped.

Emily stared at the screen, horrified. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” she whispered. “Who posted that? Tyler’s such an asshole. People are going to see this. My classmates are going to see this. My mom—”

She grabbed the phone from my hand with shaking fingers, tapped frantically.

“It’s okay,” she said, half to me, half to herself. “I’ll get him to delete it. I’ll tell Megan. She’ll make him. I can fix this.”

She sounded suddenly much more panicked about the video than about what she’d done.

Something inside me went very, very still.

“You’re more worried about what people will think,” I said slowly, “than about what you did to us.”

She froze, the phone still in her hand. Her mouth opened, then closed.

“That’s not true,” she said weakly. “I’m worried about both.”

“I believe you,” I said. “But the order matters.”

She stared at me, eyes wide and glistening. “Dan…”

“I can’t do this,” I said quietly. “I can’t be with someone who cheats and then prioritizes damage control over my pain.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” she insisted. “I’m just freaking out, okay? My brain is in a thousand places. Please don’t make a permanent decision based on one awful night.”

“It’s not just this night,” I said. “It’s everything leading up to it. The complaining. The resentment. The way you talk about me sometimes, like I’m some lame dad figure holding you back instead of your boyfriend.”

“That’s not how I—”

“It is,” I said. “You might not say it out loud, but it’s there. That’s why it was so easy for you to throw me under the bus up there. Because some part of you believes it.”

She pressed her lips together, tears still falling. She didn’t deny it.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I do. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

I closed my eyes for a second. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to rewind. I wanted to unsee it.

But I couldn’t.

“I used to think love was enough,” I said. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Please,” she said. Her voice cracked on the word. “Don’t leave me like this. Don’t do this in a car outside a party. This isn’t… it can’t end like this.”

I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white.

“I’ll drive you home,” I said finally. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight. You’re drunk, and you’re a mess. But after that…”

My throat tightened. I swallowed it down.

“After that, we’re done.”

She let out a low, raw sound, like something torn from deep inside. “No,” she whispered. “No, you don’t mean that. You’re just angry. You’ll wake up tomorrow and—”

“And remember exactly what I saw,” I said. “This isn’t an impulse. This is a line.”

She shook her head over and over, like she could shake reality away. “You can’t just throw away two years over one mistake.”

“I’m not throwing it away,” I said quietly. “You did.”

She stared at me, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. “I hate you,” she said suddenly, the words exploding from her like a grenade. “I hate you for making me feel like this.”

I flinched. Then, calmly, I said, “Maybe someday you’ll realize I didn’t make you do anything.”

She sobbed, turning her face toward the window. “Just drive,” she whispered. “Please.”

So I did.

---

The ride to her apartment was twenty minutes of pure silence, broken only by her occasional quiet sobs and the hum of the engine.

Streetlights flashed across her face in alternating bands of light and shadow. I kept my eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, mind replaying the balcony like a looped GIF.

When we pulled up in front of her building, she unbuckled her seatbelt with shaky hands.

“Can you… walk me up?” she asked, voice small again.

I hesitated. The idea of stepping into her apartment, seeing the throw blanket we’d picked out together, the plants she always forgot to water, her photos on the fridge… it felt like it would break me.

But she was still drunk, still crying. And despite everything, some part of me still cared.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’ll walk you up.”

We climbed the stairs slowly. She stumbled once; I instinctively reached out, steadying her. Her arm under my hand felt both familiar and foreign.

Inside her apartment, everything smelled like her—vanilla candles and shampoo. Her cat, Luna, trotted out from the bedroom, tail high, meowing in greeting.

Emily dropped her purse on the couch and sank onto the edge of it, burying her face in her hands again. Luna hopped up beside her, nudging her knee.

“I can sleep on the couch,” I said. “Make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit or something.”

She let out a wet laugh. “Romantic.”

“Not really going for romance tonight,” I said.

She looked up at me, eyes red and swollen. “If you stay… are you still going to break up with me tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said.

She inhaled sharply, like I’d punched the air out of her.

“You’re really not giving me another chance,” she whispered.

“I’m giving myself one,” I said. “To not always be the guy who forgives and forgets when someone shows me who they are.”

She shook her head, tears spilling again. “I can’t believe this.”

“I’ll grab you some water,” I said, needing to move, to do something other than stand there in the wreckage.

In the kitchen, I filled a glass at the sink, hands shaking slightly. My reflection in the dark window looked older than twenty-six, some invisible weight settling on my shoulders.

On the counter, her phone buzzed.

I glanced at the screen. I shouldn’t have, but I did.

A text popped up from a number saved as “Tyler 🍻”.

Tyler: u ok? dude looked pissed lol

Then, another: Tyler: if he dumps u that’s his loss tbh

A hollow laugh bubbled up in my throat. Of course.

I picked up the glass of water and carried it back to the living room. Emily was curled up on the couch now, shoes kicked off, jacket discarded on the floor, Luna purring against her side.

She looked up when I handed her the glass. “Thank you,” she murmured.

I hesitated. Then I set her phone on the coffee table, screen up, not saying anything.

She glanced at it. Her face went paper-white.

“How long has that been going on?” I asked, my voice quiet but razor-sharp.

“It’s not—” She swallowed. “We only started texting tonight. I swear.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“I’m serious,” she said frantically. “He got my number like an hour ago. You can check. There’s nothing else there.”

“I believe you,” I said. “For once, I really hope you’re not lying. Because if I find out this started before tonight, that’ll just be… one more thing.”

Tears pooled in her eyes again. “I didn’t… this isn’t… I never wanted—”

“I know,” I said. “I don’t think you planned any of this. I think it’s worse than that. I think you just didn’t think about me at all.”

She flinched.

I took a pillow from the armchair and tossed it onto the end of the couch. “You should sleep in your bed,” I said. “You’ll feel like garbage in the morning.”

She stared at me. “Stay with me,” she whispered suddenly. “Just tonight. Not as my boyfriend. Just… as someone who cares. I don’t want to be alone. Please.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

I stood there, torn. It would’ve been easier to walk out. Clean break. No lingering.

But that’s never been who I am.

I sighed. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” I said. “I’ll be here if you need to puke. That’s it.”

She nodded, more tears spilling over. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

She stood unsteadily, swayed, then stumbled toward her bedroom. Luna followed.

I grabbed an extra blanket from the closet, spread it on the carpet, and lay down fully clothed. The ceiling above me was covered in those glow-in-the-dark stars she’d insisted on sticking up last year. They glowed faintly in the dark, constellations of plastic.

For a long time, I lay there, listening to the muffled sound of her crying through the bedroom door.

I thought about two years of shared holidays, inside jokes, lazy Sundays. I thought about the coffee shop. The ER. The paint on my walls.

I thought about the balcony.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under.

---

I woke up to sunlight stabbing my eyes and the sound of retching.

I scrambled up, blanket tangling around my legs, and stumbled into the bathroom. Emily was on her knees over the toilet, hair in her face.

Without thinking, I knelt beside her, gathering her hair back, holding it in a makeshift ponytail. It felt automatic, like muscle memory. We’d done this dance before after nights out, long before tonight’s nightmare.

She groaned, spat, flushed. Her whole body shook.

“Kill me,” she croaked.

“Not my style,” I said quietly.

She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, face pale and clammy. “I feel like death.”

I handed her a washcloth soaked in cool water. She pressed it to her face, breathing shallowly.

For a moment, we were just two people dealing with a hangover. It almost felt normal. Almost.

Then reality crashed back in.

Her eyes opened slowly. She looked at me, really looked at me, and I saw the moment last night’s events resurfaced in her brain.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Dan, I… I’m so sorry.”

I sighed. “You said that last night.”

“I know, but… I was drunk and hysterical. I need to say it now. Sober.” Her voice shook. “What I did was awful. There’s no excuse. I betrayed you. I betrayed us. I hurt you in a way you didn’t deserve at all. I hate myself for it.”

A lump rose in my throat.

“Good,” I said softly. “You should.”

She nodded, tears slipping down again. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to stay. I know I ruined this. I just… I need you to know that if I could take it back, I would. I would do literally anything to erase that moment.”

“I believe that,” I said. “But we don’t get do-overs. We just get consequences.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking out. “I really did love you,” she choked out. “I still do.”

I swallowed hard. “I loved you too.”

The past tense hung heavy between us.

She let out a sob, then clapped a hand over her mouth, like even that was too loud for her pounding head.

I stood up, joints stiff from the floor. “You should drink some water,” I said. “And maybe eat some toast or something. I’m gonna… give you some space.”

She nodded, still crying quietly.

I stepped out of the bathroom, heart hammering, and went to the living room. My overnight bag—really just my work backpack—was by the couch. I picked it up, slinging it over my shoulder.

On the coffee table, her phone buzzed again. Another text from Tyler flashed across the screen.

Tyler: you alive? party was insane 😂

I stared at it for a second. Then, without really thinking about it, I picked up the phone, opened his contact, and blocked the number.

Emily walked out of the bathroom just as I set the phone down. She was in an oversized t-shirt now, bare-legged, hair in a messy bun, eyes swollen.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly. “I was going to block him.”

“I know,” I said. “Consider it my last act as your boyfriend.”

Her face crumpled. “You’re really going.”

“I have to,” I said. “If I stay, I’ll talk myself into minimizing this. Into saying it was just a kiss, just a mistake, just a symptom of bigger issues we can fix. And maybe some of that is true. But the fact is, you crossed a line I can’t uncross.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, like she was cold. “So that’s it.”

“That’s it,” I said.

She took a step closer, then stopped herself, fingers curling into the hem of her shirt.

“Can I… can I hug you?” she whispered.

The question tore unexpectedly at my heart.

I hesitated. Then slowly, I nodded.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. For a second, my body responded the way it always had, arms moving around her, pulling her close. She fit against me like she always had, like we were puzzle pieces.

She was shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered into my chest. “For everything.”

I closed my eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, the faint alcohol still on her breath, the cheap laundry detergent she liked because it smelled like “clean rain.”

“I know,” I said.

After a moment, I gently loosened my arms and stepped back.

She let her hands fall to her sides, a lost look on her face.

“I hope you find someone who shows up for you the way you need,” I said. “Someone who doesn’t make you feel like second place to a laptop. You deserve that.”

She shook her head, tears spilling again. “I had that,” she whispered. “And I ruined it.”

There was nothing I could say to that.

I walked to the door, hand on the knob. I paused, looking back one last time.

She stood in the middle of the living room, hair messy, makeup smeared, t-shirt wrinkled. Luna rubbed against her leg, confused.

For a second, a slideshow flashed behind my eyes—her dancing in my kitchen in socked feet, her studying flashcards on my couch, her curled up asleep on my chest during a storm.

I forced myself to open the door.

“Goodbye, Em,” I said.

“Bye, Dan,” she whispered.

I stepped out, letting the door click shut behind me.

---

People talk about heartbreak like it’s a dramatic, cinematic thing—a single shattering moment, slow motion, the sound of your own wail echoing in your ears.

Sometimes it’s that.

But sometimes it’s quieter. It’s the feeling of driving home alone on a Saturday morning, the sun too bright, the radio off because every song feels like it was written to mock you. It’s walking into your apartment and seeing the mug she always used for tea. It’s finding one of her hair ties on your nightstand and realizing you don’t have a reason to keep it there anymore.

The first few days were a blur of going through the motions. Work. Gym. Sleep. Repeat. My friends texted, half concerned, half nosy. Chris apologized for sending that photo, said he hadn’t realized he was dropping a bomb. Megan called me once, drunk, slurring into my voicemail about how “Em is a wreck” and I should “please just talk to her.”

I didn’t call back.

Emily texted me every day at first.

Emily: I miss you.

Emily: I’m in therapy now. I know that doesn’t fix things but I wanted you to know.

Emily: I saw your favorite donut at the store today and it made me cry in the middle of Kroger. That’s your fault.

I read every message. I responded to none.

After a week, the texts slowed. After two, they stopped altogether.

I thought that would make it easier. It didn’t. It just made it quieter.

Months passed.

I unsubscribed from her Spotify family plan. I boxed up the things she’d left at my place—t-shirts, mismatched socks, a Polaroid camera, a scarf she’d forgotten last winter. I texted her once, a simple:

Me: I have a box of your stuff. Let me know when you want to grab it.

She replied hours later.

Emily: You can donate it. Or burn it lol. I can’t see you yet. I’m sorry.

So I donated the clothes and kept the Polaroid camera in a drawer. I couldn’t explain why.

I ran into her once, months later, at a coffee shop downtown. She was with a classmate, laughing about something, her hair shorter, a new tattoo peeking from her sleeve. Our eyes met. She froze.

We just nodded at each other. A small, sad acknowledgment. No words.

Her friend asked who I was. I heard Emily say, “Just someone I used to know.”

It stung. But it was fair.

Life moved on. Like it always does, even when you’re convinced it won’t.

I went on other dates. Some were fine. Some were terrible. None of them were Emily, and that was both a relief and a weird ache.

Sometimes, late at night, I thought about that balcony. About how an entire relationship can pivot on a single moment under string lights.

Other times, I thought about the warning signs I’d ignored. The jokes about me being “boring.” The way she lit up at parties in a way she never did on our couch. The resentment in her voice when she talked about my work.

If I’d listened harder, would things have been different? Could I have changed enough, been fun enough, present enough, to keep her from crossing that line?

Maybe.

Or maybe someone who can kiss another person and then ask you to pretend it was nothing was always going to break eventually.

I didn’t have a neat answer. Real life rarely gives you one.

One Saturday afternoon, about six months after the party, I was in a diner near my apartment, working on my laptop—even on weekends, some habits die hard. The place smelled like coffee and pancakes. Oldies played softly from the speakers.

A waitress with pink hair refilled my mug. “You want anything else, hon?” she asked.

I glanced at the menu, then shook my head. “I’m good. Thanks.”

She smiled and moved on.

I stared at the screen for a moment. Then, without overthinking it, I closed my laptop.

Outside the window, the sky was a clear, ridiculous blue. People walked by with dogs and strollers and grocery bags. Life. Normal, messy life.

I took a sip of coffee and let myself just be, in that small, ordinary moment.

What I saw that night at the party had left me speechless. It had shattered something. But it had also taught me something I’d have to relearn over and over:

Love isn’t just about showing up when it’s convenient, or fun, or flattering. It’s about the tiny, boring, everyday choices. The ones that nobody films for Instagram.

And sometimes, choosing yourself—your boundaries, your self-respect—hurts more than holding on.

But it’s still the right choice.

I left a few bills on the table, nodded at the pink-haired waitress, and stepped out into the afternoon sun.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t look like a giant, blank, terrifying space.

It just looked… open.

And that, surprisingly, felt like enough.

THE END