My Boyfriend Chose Her. So Did My Two Best Friends. Chapter 10

My Boyfriend Chose Her. So Did My Two Best Friends. Chapter 10

“Cassidy, congratulations.”

My manager forwarded the project’s final approval email, CC’d to the whole department.

The last line of the email read: [Primary visual design for this project completed by Cassidy Marsh.]

Sloane knocked on my desk from next door.

“You’re buying.”

“Buying what?”

“Your first solo project just went live, you can’t not treat me.”

“You pick the place.”

“That new Japanese place, I heard it’s good.”

“Deal.”

Before I clocked out, a message came in from Graham.

Not the usual “come back” kind.

He’d sent a screenshot-a group chat log from a year ago.

I scrolled up and found the message that had been buried.

[I have some good news I want to share with everyone.]

The next second, Harlow’s cake photos came in.

The second after that, everyone replying about the cake.

Graham added a line next to the screenshot.

[I found it. I’m sorry, Cassidy. Not just words.]

I looked at it for a long time.

Replied with two words.

[I know.]

Then closed the thread.

Not forgiveness. Not reconciliation.

Just-I knew he meant it.

But knowing didn’t change anything.

Some things, once broken, stay broken.

You can’t glue it back together and pretend it was never cracked.

That evening, I had dinner with Sloane at the Japanese place.

She ordered a bottle of sake, poured me a small cup.

“Cassidy, I’ve been watching you for a month now.”

“Watching me do what?”

“You never state what you actually need.”

My fork paused mid-air.

“In client meetings, you clearly disagree with a proposal and you say ‘that could work too. At lunch, someone

asks what you want to eat, you say ‘anything’s fine. Last week the AC was freezing and you were shivering, I

asked if you wanted it adjusted, you said ‘it’s okay.”

She looked at me.

“You’re not ‘anything’s fine. You’ve just gotten used to not wanting to be a bother.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I used to be the same way,” she said, taking a sip.

“Eventually I figured something out. If you don’t say anything, people genuinely assume you don’t need anything. It’s not that people are bad, it’s that you never gave yourself the chance.”

It’s not that people are bad, it’s that you never gave yourself the chance.

That sentence hit harder than ten of Weston’s emails combined.

“Sloane, I want to tell you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“I used to have a boyfriend. Two years together. In front of him, I said a lot of things-said when I was

unhappy, said what I wanted, said how it felt to be overlooked. He’d either say ‘there you go again’ or ‘that’s

enough. I said it enough times, eventually I just stopped.”

“And then?”

“And then he said I never told him anything, how was he supposed to know.”

Sloane set down her cup.

“Classic.”

“Yeah.”

“You say something, he doesn’t listen. You don’t say anything, it’s your fault for not saying it. Either way,

somehow you’re wrong. Leaving that was the right call.”

I nodded.

“Do you still think about him?”

I thought about it.

“Not him. But sometimes I think about who I used to be. And I feel a little sorry for her.”

“Not sorry-she just gave her kindness to the wrong people. Kindness given to people who don’t deserve it

just turns cheap.”

The sake was light, almost like water going down.

But it had a kick.

By the time I finished the cup, my face was warm.

On the walk home, a message came through.

Weston.

He’d added me from a new number.

I’d never deleted this one.

One line.

[Harlow told me she has feelings for me.]

I looked at that sentence. Waited ten seconds.

Then I replied.

[Congrats.]

Sent it, then blocked this number too.

Back at the apartment, I sat on the windowsill.

Melbourne’s night was quiet, the distant sound of a tram carrying over from a few streets away.

My phone rang. Delaney.

“Weston and Harlow are together. Did you know?”

“He just told me.”

“How’d you react?”

“Said congrats.”

“You mean it?”

“Not sincerely, not insincerely either. It’s just-not my business anymore.”

Delaney was quiet for a moment.

“Graham posted something long on Instagram.”

“Saying what?”

“Basically that he and Desmond have both been reflecting, that they didn’t treat you well, they hope you’re

doing well.”

“And then?”

“Then in the comments, Desmond wrote something even longer. Said he went back through all the old chats, found that every time you said ‘it’s fine,’ there was a whole conversation before it where nobody had listened.”

I leaned against the window frame.

Outside, under the streetlamp, the bird was back.

“Cassidy, are you crying?”

“No.”

“You can, you know.”

“I know. I just don’t want to anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because crying would mean feeling sorry for them. I don’t want to feel sorry for anyone anymore.”

Delaney didn’t say anything else.

I watched the bird outside, watched it preen its feathers and fly off.

A notification popped up-the company’s project launch announcement.

Attached was the visual-the one I’d made, in blue.

That blue was mine. I chose it myself.

Nobody helped me pick it. Nobody edited it. Nobody said “that’s close enough.”

I mixed that color myself, over two days, seventeen revisions, until I finally landed on it.

I screenshotted the image and set it as my phone wallpaper.

Then pulled up the covers and turned off the light.

Work again tomorrow.

New drafts to make, new meetings to sit through, new days to live.

None of those days would have Weston in them. Or Graham. Or Desmond. Or Harlow.

Just me.

A long time ago, I used to think being alone was terrifying.

Now I think being alone is actually pretty good.

The curtain wasn’t drawn all the way. A thin line of moonlight slipped through.

Not dark. Not too bright either.

Just right.

I closed my eyes.

Phone on silent. The world, quiet.

Tomorrow’s forecast for Melbourne calls for sunshine.

I think I’ll walk to work.

Maybe I’ll see a bird on the way.

Maybe I won’t.

But either way, it doesn’t matter anymore.

THE END