My Best Friend Stole My Life for Three Years

During my first year of long-distance with Ethan, I found a selfie of my best friend, Chloe, on her phone. She was standing on his balcony. I lost my mind right then and there. With teary eyes, she squatted in front of me and said, "I was just helping you drop off his winter clothes. The lighting was great, so I took a quick snap. You can go through my phone if you don't believe me." That single sentence made me soft-hearted for three years. For three years, she helped me pick up his Amazon packages, brought him slow-cooked beef stew, and even sent holiday gifts to his parents on my behalf. Everyone told me, "Clara, you must have saved a kingdom in your past life to have a best friend like Chloe." Until this Thanksgiving, when I finally got some PTO and flew over to surprise him. At the entrance of the apartment building, I ran into Ethan’s neighbor, Mrs. Gable. She was carrying a pumpkin pie and looked me up and down. "Oh, sweetheart, you must be Chloe's friend, right? She went out to the farmer's market. She'll be back in a bit." I froze. "How do you know she went grocery shopping?" Mrs. Gable smiled warmly and said: "She goes every single morning! It's been three years. Everyone in this building knows her. We all thought she was Ethan's wife." I stood at the building entrance, clutching my suitcase. My feet felt glued to the ground. Three years. She wasn't helping me look after him. She was living my life. 1 "Sweetheart, do you want to go upstairs and wait? Chloe will be back soon." Mrs. Gable kept chatting behind me. I gripped the handle of my suitcase. "No, thank you, Mrs. Gable. I think I got the wrong building." "The wrong building?" Mrs. Gable leaned over to look at the door number. "No, this is Unit Four. Ethan lives right here..." "I'm not looking for this complex." I forced a smile, turned around, and dragged my suitcase toward the main gate. My phone buzzed. A Snapchat message from Chloe: "Happy Thanksgiving! Did you get your PTO? If not, I can bring Ethan some pumpkin pie~" Followed by a smiley face. I stared at that smiley face for ten solid seconds. She had used this emoji for three years. I used to think it was sweet and caring—a warm gesture bridging the 800 miles between us. Now, every curve of that smile felt like a slap in the face. I didn't reply. I opened my chat with Ethan. My last message, "Just landed, giving you a surprise!" was sitting at the very top. Read. No reply. Maybe he was in a meeting. Or maybe he was eating the breakfast she made. I long-pressed the message and hit "Delete." The system notification popped up and disappeared. Three seconds. It took only three seconds to erase a surprise I had planned for forty-seven days. I hailed an Uber at the gate. "Where to, miss?" "Is there a hotel nearby? Somewhere cheap." "Take a left at the next intersection. You don't live here?" "No." The front desk clerk asked how many nights I'd be staying. I said I didn't know. She glanced at me and handed over a key card. Sixth floor. The moment I pushed the door open, I gasped—the window faced Ethan's building directly. I could clearly see his window on the fourth floor. There was a pot of ivy sitting on the sill. I had mailed that ivy to him two years ago. Ethan said on FaceTime that he couldn't keep it alive, so I told Chloe to look after it. She said no problem. The ivy was living a much better life than my relationship. My phone rang again. Chloe. "?? Clara, why aren't you replying?" I typed two words: "Busy working." "Busy with what? Oh, by the way, Ethan said he's working until eight tonight, so don't wait up for his FaceTime. I made cinnamon rolls, and I'm going to drop them off for him as a late-night snack." *Help you.* She always said she was "helping me." Helping me pick up packages, helping me bring him stew, helping me bake cinnamon rolls, helping me care for the ivy, helping me spend Thanksgiving with him. It was as if all I had to do was say "thank you" from 800 miles away to fulfill my duties as a girlfriend. "Clara?" "Yeah, thank you." The moment I sent those three words, my fingers recoiled as if they had touched hot iron. Three years. How many times had I said thank you? Every time I said it, she got another chair, another pair of slippers in that home. And every time I said it, I took a step back from my own life. My phone buzzed a third time. Ethan. "Just finished a meeting. What are you doing?" followed by his usual cat-stretching sticker. Looking at that cat, I remembered that Chloe’s canvas tote bag had the exact same cat printed on it. I had given it to her for her birthday last year. Mrs. Gable said she carried it to the farmer's market every morning. The birthday gift I gave my best friend had become her grocery bag for acting as the lady of the house at my boyfriend's place. "Clara?" Ethan sent another message. I turned off the screen. It wasn't that I didn't want to reply; I just didn't know who I was anymore. His girlfriend? His neighbors didn't even know me. The entire building thought another woman was his wife. So who was I? Outside, fireworks were going off. It was Thanksgiving—someone else's Thanksgiving. Chloe sent a photo. Cinnamon rolls on a white ceramic plate, with the familiar dining table in the background. "All baked! Waiting for Ethan to come back and eat~ Don't worry." *Don't worry.* I stared at the dining table in the photo. At the corner of the table, there was an open book. I couldn't read the title, but that spot—it was the spot to Ethan's right, where I used to see him eat during our FaceTimes. That spot was now occupied by someone else's book. "Okay," I replied with a single word, then flipped my phone face down. Outside, the fireworks exploded and faded, casting flickering lights across the hotel ceiling. Just like my trust over the past three years—brilliant while it lasted, but leaving nothing but ash when it fell. 2 "Hi, what time is checkout?" "Twelve noon. If you want to stay longer, it's another night's charge." "I'll extend it." The clerk looked up at me but didn't ask questions. I went back to my room, sat on the edge of the bed, and scrolled through my phone. Not for new messages, but for old records. Chloe and I had over two thousand pages of chat history from the last three years. I started scrolling from the very beginning. Three years ago, that winter, she went to Ethan’s place for the first time. The text went like this: Chloe: "Clothes delivered! Ethan was wearing slippers when he opened the door, so messy haha." Me: "Thanks Chloe, you're the best." Chloe: "No problem, was on my way. His apartment is so warm, I sat for a bit, had a glass of water, and then left." *Sat for a bit.* It all started with that "sat for a bit." Scrolling down further. Chloe: "Picked up a package for you today. Ethan wasn't home, so I left it by his door." Chloe: "His mom sent some organic eggs. Do you want me to keep some for you?" Chloe: "I washed your coat for you and hung it on the balcony." Chloe: "Ethan's water heater broke. I called maintenance for him." Chloe: "He's been working late. I made beef stew and brought it over. Don't worry." Every single message had an implicit subject. *I am here.* Was she helping me take care of my home? No. She was using my name to move into that home, step by step. I clicked on the photo that had caused our fight three years ago—Chloe’s selfie on Ethan’s balcony. At the time, I confronted her. She squatted in front of me with red eyes, saying she just took it because the light was good, telling me to check her phone. Her phone was indeed clean. No flirting, no shady texts. I had let out a sigh of relief. But now, as I zoomed in on the photo, I noticed something I had missed three years ago. On the balcony floor, there were two pairs of slippers. One pair was gray, men's. The other was a floral print, women's. It wasn't mine. I had never bought floral slippers. My slippers were sent over that spring—solid blue-gray ones, still recorded in my Amazon purchase history. Whose floral slippers were those? The answer arrived before the question did. Her phone had been *too* clean. Back then, when I checked her phone, there wasn't a single trace of flirting. I thought that was proof of her innocence. But who completely wipes out their chat history with their best friend's boyfriend? Normal people don't. Unless every single message is something that cannot be seen. The lack of evidence was the biggest evidence of all. I put down my phone, went to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. The icy water cleared my head. The look on her face three years ago—misty-eyed, aggrieved, innocent. My heart had softened. "That single sentence made me soft-hearted for three years." I spoke to the mirror, my voice sounding incredibly raspy. Then I added: "I brought this on myself." I only allowed myself to say it once. I wiped my face, sat back on the bed, and opened another app. DoorDash. I checked Ethan's account—he had given me his password years ago. Year one: five to six orders a week. Year two: two to three orders. Year three: almost zero. A single man living alone in a long-distance relationship going from eating takeout every day to almost never ordering food. It wasn't because he learned how to cook. It was because someone was cooking for him every single day. I pulled out my notebook and wrote a line on the last page: *Tomorrow morning, 6:30 AM, Farmer's Market.* Mrs. Gable said she went every morning. I had to see it with my own eyes. Not to get angry, but to completely kill off the last bit of weakness in my heart. My phone lit up. Ethan sent a voice note. I tapped it. "Clara, why are you so quiet today? Happy Thanksgiving. I miss you." *I miss you.* His tone was exactly the same as three years ago. Flat, casual, like a phrase he said out of habit. It wasn't longing. It was routine. "Yeah, Happy Thanksgiving," I typed and sent. Then I set my alarm for six in the morning. 3 "The usual, sweetie. A block of fresh artisan cheese." The vendor smiled, wrapped it up, and handed it over. "Hey Chloe, what's your man having tonight? Beef stew or chicken noodle soup?" The question came from the vegetable vendor next door. Chloe was holding the canvas bag with the cat print. She wore a cozy, bohemian linen dress with her hair loosely tied back. She smiled and said, "Let's go with beef stew. He’s been working late, needs some extra energy." "Alright, I'll pick out some good potatoes and carrots for you. Ethan is a lucky guy, having someone cook for him every day." "Oh, stop it," Chloe laughed, waving her hand. *Your man.* Those two words felt like a needle driving into my skull. I stood twenty yards away behind a fruit stand, my hat pulled down to my eyebrows and a mask covering half my face. I had left the hotel at 6:30 AM. Shortly after seven, she appeared at the entrance of the market. She walked with a light, familiar step, greeting the coffee vendor and joking with the egg seller. Every vendor knew her. She wasn't a casual shopper; she was a familiar face who showed up every day. She walked past the cheese stand, the vegetable stand, the butcher shop, and finally stopped at the spice stall. "Do you have that organic rosemary? The one I bought last time?" "Yes, indeed. Half a pound again?" "Yeah, he only likes this brand for his stew." *He.* No last name, no first name. Just one pronoun was enough. Only people who lived together spoke with such casual shorthand. I squeezed an apple from the stand, my nails nearly cutting into the skin. Chloe walked back with a heavy bag of groceries. When she passed by me, she was less than three feet away. I smelled her laundry detergent. It was the lavender scent I had mailed to Ethan. I always used that brand, loved the smell, and sent him several bottles. She carried that scent on her. It wasn't a passing whiff. She was wearing clothes washed in his machine, sleeping on sheets washed in that detergent, and after a night, the scent had seeped into her hair and collar. The detergent I bought for Ethan was washing her clothes. She walked right past me. She didn't recognize me. After a few steps, she pulled out her phone, smiled at the screen, and typed. My phone buzzed almost instantly. A Snapchat from Chloe: "Good morning, Clara! The weather is beautiful today. Make sure you eat a good breakfast!" I looked at her retreating back, then at the message on my screen. She had just bought groceries for my boyfriend, walked past me, and turned around to send me a "Good morning." "Hey, miss, do you want that apple?" the vendor asked. I looked down at the bruised apple in my hand. "No, thank you." I put the apple down and walked out of the market. The morning sun filtered through the stalls, hitting my face. It was warm, but my spine was freezing. On the way back to the hotel, I passed the side gate of the apartment complex. A little boy on a tricycle almost bumped into me. His mom ran out yelling, "Slow down, buddy!" A normal, bustling, lively routine. But in this neighborhood's routine, I didn't even qualify as a passerby. As I stepped into the hotel elevator, my phone buzzed again. A message from Ethan: "Sorry I couldn't FaceTime last night. Worked way too late. Are you free this afternoon?" *Worked way too late.* Which home did you go back to? Who was waiting for you? I replied: "We'll see." The elevator doors closed. Sixth floor, long hallway, card key tap. Standing by the window, I saw Chloe walking into the apartment gate with her groceries. The doorman nodded to her. They knew her. Everyone knew her. The doorman knew her, the vendors knew her, the neighbors knew her, the whole building knew her. The only person they didn't know was me—the one who actually belonged there. I pulled the curtains shut. "No, thank you." I repeated the words to myself. They felt like an answer to much more than just the fruit vendor. 4 "Clara, have you been feeling down lately?" Chloe sent a voice note in the afternoon. I didn't play it. I just looked at the progress bar: fifty-nine seconds. Just one second shy of a full minute. What was packed into those fifty-nine seconds? Care? Testing the waters? I didn't know, and I didn't want to know. I sent a text back: "No, just busy with work." "That's good~ Oh, by the way, has your PTO been approved yet? If you can't make it, I can help you..." "I'm not coming." I cut her off. "Oh? I thought you wanted to see Ethan?" "Plans changed." Silence on the other end for a few seconds. "Alright then... don't overwork yourself. Let me know if you need anything." *Let me know if you need anything.* Suddenly, a memory flashed in my mind. Last autumn, I had finally saved up enough days off and excitedly told Chloe I was flying over to see Ethan. The very next day, she sent me a link: "Oh my god! Cheap flights to Miami! Only $150 round trip! Let's do a girls' trip!" I hesitated. She said, "You can see Ethan anytime, but a beach vacation won't wait. This price is crazy." I changed my plans. Last winter, I almost got time off again. I mentioned it to her, and she said, "Don't buy the ticket yet. I think Ethan has a business trip. Let me check his schedule for you." After checking, she told me Ethan was going to be out of town for those two weeks. So I didn't go. Now that I thought about it, I had never once confirmed with Ethan himself whether that business trip actually existed. Every time I tried to get close, she would find a reason to stop me. Cheap tickets, schedule conflicts, urgent projects—every excuse was perfectly reasonable, impeccably considerate. She wasn't helping me make better plans. She was blocking my path. I pulled out my notebook and added two lines to the list of evidence: *6. The Miami plane ticket last year—stopped my first visit.* *7. The winter 'business trip'—stopped my second visit.* Then, at the very bottom, I wrote: *Should I go upstairs?* I stared at it for three seconds, then crossed it out. And wrote a new line: *Why should I go upstairs?* What would going upstairs change? To walk in and see him and her sitting in the living room, one peeling apples and the other watching TV? To see two pairs of slippers in the shoe rack, one gray and one floral? To see her grocery list stuck to the fridge? And then what? Cry, scream, listen to him say "it's not what you think," and watch her squat down with teary eyes saying "let me explain"? We had already played out that script three years ago. Same script, same lines, same ending—my heart would soften, and she would stay. I closed the notebook. 3:30 PM. The hotel curtains weren't fully closed, letting a strip of light fall onto the carpet. I looked out the window. Two people walked out of the apartment building entrance. Ethan was in front, carrying two bags of trash. Chloe was behind him, looking down at her phone. There was about half a step's distance between them. Not too close, not too far. They didn't look like lovers, but they didn't look like friends either. They looked like a married couple. The kind of domestic, routine synchronization that comes from muscle memory after the honeymoon phase is long gone. Ethan walked to the dumpster, bent down to drop the bags, and Chloe naturally stood a couple of steps away, waiting. When he turned back, he said something, and she smiled and nodded. No holding hands. No hugs. No physical intimacy whatsoever. Yet this unspoken understanding felt more real than any kiss. You can fake a kiss. You can't fake a routine. I pulled out my phone and took a photo. Not to show anyone as evidence, but to look at whenever my heart started to soften in the future. Three years ago, she cured my suspicion with her teary eyes. I needed to keep a dose of medicine for myself to prevent a relapse. After taking the photo, I let my hand drop to my side. The two of them walked slowly toward the gate, looking like they were just taking a stroll. Ethan walked on the side closer to the street. That habit used to belong to me. During our first year together, he always walked like that, saying the guy should walk on the outside. Now, someone else stood in that spot. My phone buzzed. A Snapchat from Ethan. "I'm free now. Want to FaceTime?" I looked down at the message, then up at the window—he had pulled out his phone. He was likely typing it right then. Chloe was standing right next to him. He was standing beside her, asking me, "Want to FaceTime?" Like an employee clocking in at the office, opening his work software to handle remote business because it was that time of day. I was that remote business. Their figures grew smaller and smaller as they turned into the side gate. I stared at the closed iron gate and whispered, "No FaceTime." I pulled out my notebook, flipped to the page that read "Why should I go upstairs?" and added one last line at the bottom: *I'm not going upstairs. No phone calls. No confrontations.* *Not because I'm not angry.* *But because if I go up there, she still wins.* I closed the notebook and started packing my suitcase. My phone lit up. I glanced at it. Chloe’s Instagram story. A photo of the autumn moon with the caption: "A beautiful night for a warm, cozy reunion." Location: Ethan's apartment complex. The first comment below was from my mom: "Happy Thanksgiving, Chloe! Thanks for taking care of Ethan for Clara." Chloe replied: "Of course, Sarah! Clara is my best friend, after all." I closed Instagram. My best friend. "My best friend lived my life for three years."