The Night "Steve" Exposed the Truth

 

There was always a gut feeling—a gnawing certainty that something was off. It wasn’t paranoia; it was survival instinct. My ex had a dirty little trick, a pathetic attempt to cover his tracks—saving girls’ numbers under dudes’ names. Cute, right?

Then, one night, his deceit detonated.

"Steve" wouldn’t stop blowing up his phone. Over and over, desperate, needy, annoying. My ex had stumbled in from the bar, reeking of alcohol, slurring something incoherent before crashing into unconsciousness like the useless coward he was. His phone lit up, vibrating incessantly—a beacon of betrayal.

I reached for it. I already knew what I was going to find.

The messages were disgusting, blatant, shameless. "Steve" was eager—couldn’t wait to get on top again, couldn’t wait to help him forget all about me.

Except it wasn’t Steve. Obviously.

I needed proof. Cold, undeniable, rub-it-in-his-face evidence. So I did the only thing that made sense: I picked up my own phone and called the number.

And when a girl answered, my stomach twisted with disgust—not shock, not sadness, just pure, undiluted disgust.

She stammered through her confession, voice dripping with excuses, useless apologies. "Only a month," she said. "I feel really bad," she whined. Oh, poor her, right? Like I was supposed to care.

I wasn’t about to shed a tear over this fool. No, I had a better idea.

I woke my boyfriend up in the most satisfying way possible—with a cell phone colliding into his face.

Cue the pathetic damage control:
"I don’t know her."
"We only kissed."
"Okay, it happened once."
And finally, the pièce de resistance—"Maybe if you were as attractive as when we first got together, I wouldn’t have looked elsewhere."

Oh. Oh. So now I was the problem? ME?

Cool.

I walked away, but not before making sure he knew exactly what he was—a liar, a coward, a stain on my past. I should have never wasted my time, never let someone that mediocre make me doubt myself. And yet, somehow, he did—he left me with that bitter little seed of self-loathing, the kind that takes root even when you know better.

But here’s the thing—I refuse to let his worthlessness define me. He is the reason I doubted myself, but he sure as hell won’t be the reason I keep doing it.