I used to believe in second chances. Thought that if love was real, it’d find its way back no matter what—through the hurt, the pride, the mistakes. So when Mark—my ex—messaged me out of the blue two years after we split, something inside me wavered. A mix of nerves, nostalgia, and this tiny, stubborn hope filled the air around me.
We didn’t end well. There were bitter words, things left unsaid, too much pride on both sides. It took me ages to stitch myself back together, to relearn how to breathe. I even dated someone else, tried to move on. But Mark… he lingered, like a scar that never quite faded. I never forgot. So when he suggested meeting up—just to talk—I said yes. Naively thinking maybe it could be something good. Just two adults catching up, right? What could go wrong?
We met at this cosy little café near Covent Garden. I got there early, and when he walked in, my heart did this stupid, heavy thud. There he was—same straight posture, same stubble, same warm gaze that felt like home. He smiled, came over, and hugged me. For a second, I swear I was back in the past, when everything made sense.
We talked for hours. Started with the usual—work, life, how we’d been. His voice was still soft, his eyes still focused, like he actually cared how I’d been without him. And me? I melted. Started wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was still something there—even if it was just friendship.
But then… something shifted.
He leaned back in his chair, grew quiet, looked away like he was wrestling with himself. My stomach knotted. Then he spoke.
“Emma… I need to tell you something. It’s been eating at me.”
My throat went dry. “You’re scaring me. What is it?”
He rubbed his temples, exhaled, then met my eyes. “I didn’t come here to get back with you. That’s not why I reached out. All this—” He gestured between us. “—it’s not because I missed you.”
The room tilted. “Then why?”
A beat of silence. Then: “I’m using you, Emma. To get back at your sister. Lucy.”
The world dropped out from under me.
“What? You… what?”
“Your sister—she played me,” he said flatly. “Made me think she loved me. Then she went behind my back with someone else. Laughed about it. Now I’m playing her back. And you? You’re the easiest way to do it.”
I couldn’t breathe. Lucy—my best friend, my rock—she wouldn’t. She *couldn’t*. And Mark… had every word, every look tonight been a lie?
“What did she *do*?” I barely got the words out.
“She used me. Then mocked me for falling for it.” His voice turned icy. “You’ve no idea how much that gutted me. So now? I want her to feel it too.”
My hands shook. “You’re *hurting me* to get to her? Why? I didn’t do anything to you!”
“I know. I’m sorry. But it’s the only way. She needs to know what she’s lost.”
Tears burned. My chest ached like I’d been punched. Shame, betrayal, disgust—all tangled into one.
“You played with my feelings,” I whispered. “I actually thought… I hoped…”
He looked away. “I’m sorry, Emma. Truly. But I was hurt too. Lost. I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”
I stood so fast the chair screeched. “No. *No.* I won’t be part of your twisted revenge. I’m not a pawn. I’m a person. And I won’t let you break my heart again just to punish someone else.”
He didn’t stop me. Just sat there, head bowed. I walked out into the cold London air, tears on my cheeks, one question ringing in my head: *How did I not see this coming?*
I’ll never be anyone’s puppet again. *Never.* And if cutting ties with Mark—and maybe even Lucy—is what it takes? Fine. Because lies, even in the name of love, are still betrayal. And I choose the truth. No matter how much it hurts.
